Sleepers, Awake: Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme
by Feisty Y. Beden
Summary: Bella, compulsive sketcher of wolves, has not dreamed in years. Unexpectedly, she begins to dream again the night tragedy takes away her first and greatest love. ExB, sort of.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Okay, so here's a story that's been kicking around in the back of my head for a while. It's, um, different. Please don't hurt me. Shoutout to Ravelry UU-landia.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer controls this and any other universe that rhymes with "Schmilight."**

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Sleepers, Awake (Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme)**

**Prologue**

I can't see. I can't move. I'm less alarmed by this than you'd think. My arms are pinned to my sides. I realize I'm wrapped tightly in some sort of shroud. I try to raise my arms. The fabric is old, decaying. After an initial resistance, it tears easily, like ripping through cobwebs. The scraps of fabric fall away with only a whisper of protest, and despite the fading day, I'm squinting, my eyes unaccustomed to the light. How long have I been asleep?

It's a strangely familiar place. The place is overgrown with briars but still familiar. I can't remember the last time I've been here. It's all Spanish moss and vines and crumbling stonework. When have I been here? Who was I? It was something important. I can almost remember, the memories murky shadows in my subconscious.

You can tell this place used to be majestic. Maybe hundreds of years ago it might have been a center of an advanced civilization. Now, though, it's wild and overgrown. Savage. Still, it's impressive in its own way, beauty in its rawest form.

I stretch my arms above my head and walk in a slow circle, taking in my surroundings as I step over the cloth scraps that once held me prisoner. I'm standing on what must have been a courtyard, tiles of thick granite with grass and weeds now growing through the cracks. Nature always reclaims what we've built with our hands.

I step off the edge of the granite slabs onto the hilltop. The grass beneath my bare feet is damp and soft, and the air smells sweet. The wind kicks up, whipping my long hair across my face, and I reach up to tuck the errant strands behind my ears.

I have the oddest feeling that I've returned home.

* * *

… _shortly after takeoff from Chicago O'Hare. There were no survivors. Investigators continue to search Lake Michigan for the aircraft's black box recorders. Wintry weather conditions are likely to have been a factor in the crash—_

I'm jolted from unconsciousness by NPR. The news report washes over me like an incoming tide, covering me with a general feeling of dread. Even under ideal circumstances, that is, when I coldly comfort myself with the statistically proven safety of air travel with my feet solidly and safely on the earth, I have an almost disabling fear of flying. I've tried everything: books, meditation, hypnotherapy, regular therapy, biofeedback, expensive courses taught by ex-pilots, and the only thing that gets me on a plane is the trusty anti-anxiety medication prescribed by my doctor. It relaxes me enough that I can make it through the jetway on wobbly legs and take my seat, but even so, every second inside the titanium coffin is a kind of agony. I'll sit in my narrow seat, fists clenched, seatbelt secured so tightly that if the plane stopped suddenly, I'd accidentally bisect myself. I'll sit in my tense ball, wondering if this will be my last moment on the earth. Or maybe this. Or the next. And on and on until the wheels touch ground at my final destination. _Final destination_. Even the term for the endpoint of the journey has a terrifying ring to it.

When I fly, I wonder if Shakespeare was thinking of me when he wrote, "Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once."

I have died many, many deaths.

So whenever there is a plane crash, I obsess over the details. Have I ever flown that route? That carrier? Is there significance in the flight number? Can that have been me? I'll read every article, pore over the AP photos on my computer screen, and slowly break out into a cold, clammy sweat. Sometimes I'll make myself so sick and lightheaded that I'll have to stop what I'm doing and sit with my head between my knees. The blood will rush to my head and pound in my ears. I pick at every crash as if it were a scab, as if somehow by knowing everything about it, I'll be protected from suffering the same fate.

No, it doesn't make sense to me either.

It seems my semi-conscious self at least is more protective of my mental health. My arm, practically of its own volition, swings out and smashes the snooze button before I can hear more details. It also knocks a book off my nightstand, and the ensuing clatter startles me into full wakefulness. I sit up and rub my eyes. For some reason, I feel like extending my arms by my sides, as if I am stretching out wings. The movement feels familiar and important, so I do it again slowly, my fingers swollen from sleep.

My perception still fuzzy, half dozing, I vaguely recall I was listening to something important before I woke up. What was it? I close my eyes and try to remember, and then it comes to me: _There was another plane crash_. I'd normally feel tempted to fire up my laptop and get on the news sites, but something stops me. I'm immediately distracted by my morning routine. _Cereal. Make lunch. Pack your bag_.

There'll be time later to Google to the brink of a panic attack.

I sit with a bowl of Cheerios and gaze out at the colorless day. I've been living in Boston a long, long time, and I feel far away from my family and old friends, on the opposite coast of the country. I came here for college, stayed on for grad school, and I guess I never made my way back home.

Being afraid to be on a plane for five hours straight might also have had something to do with it.

I've got friends here, a good life, all things considered, but sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, feeling so strongly the distance between my mom and me like a hollowness in my stomach. I wonder if everyone feels this, like there's an invisible string connecting each of us to the womb where we were made. Maybe you always feel the ghost of your umbilical cord the same way amputees feel the phantom of a missing limb.

My high school friends mostly stayed in state; if they left for college, they came back to Washington to settle down. If they wake up in the middle of the night, their umbilical ghost has to stretch only a few dozen miles, a couple hundred at the most. Mine stretches three thousand.

I put my bowl of cereal down on the kitchen table and draw my feet up to the seat. I lean my face against my knees for a few moments before getting dressed for work. We're having one of those crazy cold snaps, so I pull on tights, long underwear, and flannel-lined khakis. I consider wearing two sweaters but decide that would be overkill. My puffy parka will have to bear the brunt of the cold.

There are still patches of untramped snow as I pick my way through the fens to get to the E line. I have a thermos of canned chicken noodle soup, my sketchpad, and my notebook in my fraying backpack. Boston in February can be pretty desolate. You almost forget what it's like to be warm, what it's like not to have layers of sand and grit on your floor. The snow in the tread of your boots melts into puddles that evaporate and leave amorphous salt shapes that surely hold important messages if only you knew how to interpret them.

February in particular always seems the worst. Even though December has the shortest days, February seems drearier, more bitterly cold. I think of Dar Williams when she sings, "And then the snow, and then the snow came, we were always out shoveling, then we dropped to sleep exhausted, and we wake up, and it's snowing …" I don't know if she ever spent a winter in Boston, but that sounds about right. My knitted gloves do nothing to keep out the chill. The cold air makes my fingers feel like they are being bitten. I suppose the term "frostbite" had to come from somewhere.

I stamp my feet to keep my toes from going numb as I wait for the E train. I gaze down Huntington Avenue, looking for headlights of the little green trolley car. The E train is always late. I dream about moving away from the Green Line on days like today, to somewhere with a legitimate subway line. But then I wouldn't live so close to the Museum of Fine Arts, and I wouldn't be able to stroll home late at night in the summer, the smell of sausages in the air, the lights from a nighttime game at Fenway Park making my neighborhood as bright as day. With my windows open, I can hear the crowd cheering.

The E train finally arrives, already packed and steamy inside. I tap my Charlie Card against the reader and find a small corner to tuck myself into. I've been temping this week at a commercial real estate company. I rewrite contracts, get the coffee orders for meetings, and spend a lot of time staring at the cubicle walls, wishing I had real walls and maybe a window. My skin looks sallow and sickly under the florescent lights.

My ears pop as the elevator zooms up to the sixteenth floor, and I'm reminded of the plane crash. If things are slow today, I'll sit at my borrowed computer and do my usual obsessive examination of news stories. Fate is against me, though, because the office manager is waiting at my cubicle.

"Bella," she says, frowning slightly, "Megan can't come in today—she's got the flu." Megan is the receptionist. "I know you're supposed to cover Karen, but would you mind filling in for Megan today?"

What can I say? I cheerily assent and follow her to the receptionist's desk. The company gets a lot of phone calls. A lot. The computer on Megan's desk is really just a fancy phone, a way to connect with the hundred or so extensions in the office. It's not even connected to the Internet.

The phones ring all day, and I'm sweating bullets trying to connect everyone. I hate asking people to repeat their names and who they're trying to reach, but I've been here only four days so far, and I haven't come close to knowing who everyone is. I barely can grasp what commercial real estate is. Before I know it, it's five o'clock.

It must have started snowing in the afternoon, because there are already several inches on the ground as I make my way home. I take the T to Hynes and walk from there. It's a little farther, but I don't like to cut through the fens after dark. When you're the daughter of Charlie Swan, the chief of police, you are taught to see danger everywhere.

When I get home, I start peeling off layers, stripping down to my long underwear. I make some pasta, changing into my pajamas while the water's on to boil. I know it's Friday, and most people in my demographic are hitting the bars on Lansdowne, but I've always been a bit of a homebody. And tonight I know I need to draw. My fingers tingle, feeling empty without the blue and black Staedtler Mars pencil in them.

I eat my pasta and jar sauce on my couch with the TV on. Cartoon Network is showing _The Iron Giant_ again, and I can't stop watching, even though I itch to flip to the news to find out more about the crash. This movie breaks my heart. I put my bowl and fork into the sink and go back to the couch.

I sit with my sketchpad, drawing the wolves, silly little anthropomorphized creatures I've been drawing for as long as I can remember. I've always been writing and illustrating their adventures with a five-year-old girl, Izzy. Yes, I lack imagination in naming. The wolves were something I'd doodle in margins, and when I expanded the media in which I worked, I'd do them in charcoal, watercolor, acrylics, oils. As my friends back home had kids, I'd send them little books of the wolves.

"These are amazing!" my best friend Angela had said over the phone when I sent her kid a book for his first birthday. "You should get these published!"

Yeah, that. Maybe one day I'll have the guts to submit them for publication, but it seems like such a daunting prospect. I don't think I can handle any more rejection. It's what made me drop out of grad school, the constant scrutiny of the eyes of my teachers and my classmates. I hated having my work tacked onto the boards for twenty pairs of eyes to study and point out where I'd failed.

"You need to develop a thicker skin, Ms. Swan," my advisor had said. I was sitting in his tiny, cramped office, dark and dusty, and my portfolio was laid out on his desk. I was fighting hard not to cry in front of him. _Maybe you're just not cut out for this, Bella_.

I nodded glumly. "Yes, sir."

"You're going to face much harsher criticism when you're out there," he pointed out.

"I know," I said, looking past his head. If I focused on the dark wood paneling, I could pretend I wasn't really here, that I wasn't on the verge of flunking out. Flunking out! Who knew you could flunk out of art school?

He looked at my cartoony wolves. The buckled watercolor paper had made a distinctly un-paper-like sound as he shuffled through them. The paper sounded like that hollow wobbliness of disposable tin pie plates. I was wondering how paper could sound so much like metal, trying to recreate the sound in my memory.

"Ms. Swan, are you listening?"

"What?" My eyes refocused on his shiny, balding head.

He looked annoyed. "Your instructors have told me that you don't listen to their suggestions. And all you do is draw these wolves. These are fine for a side project, but for your thesis … I just don't know. They don't show enough depth or range. Anyone from the street could have done these. As we made clear, we don't often accept non-art majors into our graduate program, and we have time and time again given you the benefit of the doubt. But given your work here in the last semester, I don't know if you'll be able to finish the program."

"Oh." I felt like the air was getting sucked out of my chest.

I tried to do what I was told. I tried to find new subjects, but even as I attempted to paint a trite still life of a bowl of fruit, my hands had a life of their own. All they wanted to make were the cartoon wolves. And five-year-old Izzy. I dropped out before I could be kicked out, unable to face another rejection.

I couldn't think about art for some time after that, too filled with shame, too embarrassed about my failure. But my hands did what they wanted. At a restaurant, I'd look down at my paper placemat and see a wolf staring up at me. Where had I even found a stub of a pencil? I'd wake up with fingers blackened from charcoal, wolves on the walls. It was a good thing my apartment walls were painted in that glossy stuff that wiped clean. Eventually I gave up trying not to draw, because if I consciously did it, at least I could control where my drawings ended up.

Tonight I draw with newfound vigor, not the usual resignation of putting paper and pencil in front of me so I don't destroy property. Tonight, it's not wolves. I keep drawing trees waving with Spanish moss, a hilltop, a crumbling tower. This place … _this place_. Why do I know it? Biting my lip, I tap my pencil neurotically against the paper. _Taptaptaptaptaptaptap_. The tapping pencil is a blur, like the frenzied beating of insect wings. I stare at the black and blue ghost streaks in the air and tap faster, hoping to make the solid _thereness_ of the wood disappear altogether. I lose control, and the pencil flips out of my fingers, clattering onto the wooden floorboards and rolling behind the TV stand.

I drop to my hands and knees, crawling to the stand. I can see the pencil peeping out, and I reach my hand into the crazy bird's nest of RCA cables and extension cords. I feel around the smooth, round cables, the plastic-covered wires, until my fingers close around the hexagonal wood of the pencil. Success.

As I pull the pencil out, I feel whispery resistance against my hand, sticky and dusty all at once. My hand is covered in spider silk when I pull it out from behind the TV stand, clutching my pencil. I wipe the web bits off on my pajama pants, and as I feel an echo of the sensation of pulling apart the spider web, I remember tearing through the shroud in my dream.

_My dream_.

I dreamed. Last night I dreamed. I have not dreamed in over a decade. The last time I dreamed was the night before my mom walked out on Charlie and me. When she left our house, so ended my dreaming. I know, I know, they say if you don't dream, you eventually go crazy. I must do something like dreaming, something involving REM, because when I wake up, I feel like my brain has reset. But I never dream. I imagine my brain just shuts down with nonsense, like a TV tuned to nothing, a screen filled with snow.

I once stared at the snowy static on the TV for hours, trying to see if images would appear. All I saw were millions of tiny worms squiggling and squirming like maggots. I nearly made myself sick, imagining those TV static maggots burrowing in my brain as I slept.

I settle back into the couch and draw again. Without warning, the power goes out. I can't work on my drawings in the pitch dark. In the dark, without the drawing to distract me, I realize how cold I am. I feel my way to the closet and dig out my old sleeping bag. I slither into it and potato-sack-race hop back to the couch. I sit in my sleeping bag on the couch in the dark and listen to myself breathe.

All is dark and still, even in the city. The falling snow muffles everything. Hush, hush, it says. My nose is quite cold. I imagine a thermal photograph of the room, my body an explosion of oranges and reds, with a humorous yellowish-green spot at the tip of my nose.

My cell phone on the coffee table chirps, breaking the stillness. Angela is calling me. I haven't heard from her in ages. "Hey, stranger," I say.

"Oh, Bella," she says, sounding troubled.

"Is everything all right?" I ask.

"Have you heard the news?"

"The power's out," I say, not understanding.

"Did you hear about the plane crash?" she says. I can feel the cold clamminess return.

"Yeah, I heard something about it this morning. Out near Chicago, yeah?"

"Bella, didn't you hear?"

"What?" Why am I suddenly afraid?

"Do you remember Edward Cullen, from school?"

It's a name I haven't heard spoken aloud in years, and my heart thuds unevenly just having the familiar syllables beat against my eardrum.

"Of course," I say haltingly, wondering what on earth this has to do with anything.

"He was on that plane."

"Wait, what?" I don't understand how her two sentences can possibly fit together. These puzzle pieces are defective.

"He was on the plane, Bella. He's dead."

With a swish and a beep as the appliances in my apartment take a deep breath, the power comes back on, the TV loud and embarrassing like a drunk uncle at a family reunion. I blink at the sudden and painful light, and it's as if my heart has stopped. My ears still ring with the remembered silence, Angela's last words echoing in my mind.

_Edward Cullen is dead._


	2. One: The First Time She Saw Him

**A/N: Thanks for sticking with this story. I hope the journey will be worthwhile. Love to Ravelry and extra special hugs this week to Grendelsmother, who inspires me to strive for excellence! And for Becca Graymoor for believing in me from the very beginning.  
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**Disclaimer: Yeah, I'm pretty sure Stephenie Meyer does not approve of this fuckery.

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****Chapter 1: The First Time She Saw Him**

I was thirteen years old the first time I saw Edward Cullen. I replay the moment a lot in my head. I'm standing behind thirteen-year-old me right as she's about to push open the door to the music room. Her palm lingers for just a moment on the cool metal door. _Do you know that your life is about to change?_ I ask her silently. She never hears me. She always just pushes open the doors, disappearing into the light of the classroom, and I'm left standing in the dark hallway as the music room doors swing back and forth in an irregular rhythm, leaving smaller and smaller slivers of light and room visible as the swinging slows and eventually stops.

No matter. I know what happens. She goes in. The music teacher makes her introduce herself. Face on fire, she stumbles over her name the same way she stumbles over her feet in the hallways, but no one notices, too bored to bother mocking. And then she looks up and sees him sitting in the front row, rusty hair falling into his eyes, uniform shirt untucked, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He's bent over his guitar, grinning madly but not at her. She doesn't know why he seems so happy.

_Cute_, she thinks. _I wonder if I'll like him_. She scoffs, finding it highly unlikely that she'll fall _in like_ with the first boy she sees. _No, that's silly_, she thinks. _You shouldn't just go crushing on the first boy you run into. Don't be such a girl_. She's not used to being around boys her age, which is why her father has forced her to join this extracurricular in the first place. Charlie wants her to be socialized, worried that she spends too much time at home, looking after her poor, abandoned father. Of course, only Charlie would be clueless enough to think that the school liturgical music group would be a good way to be "socialized."

"Bella? Bella? Are you all right?" Angela sounds worried, a tiny buzzing in my ear. I'm so lost in my thoughts that I nearly swat it away like a mosquito. I'd forgotten I was on the phone.

What were we talking about? My brain seems stuck. Something bad. And then I remember: _Edward Cullen is dead_.

The walls begin to melt around me. See, when I think about death and the finality of it all, the concreteness and consistency of this world doesn't make sense. If I can die today and disappear forever, then why shouldn't I just float up to the ceiling now? What is stopping this couch from becoming misty and immaterial or transforming into a dragon? I clutch the phone in my hand so tightly that my fingernails are turning white. I grip it as if it's the edge of a cliff I'm about to fall over. The solidness of this piece of plastic and wiring and circuitry held in my hand is the only thing keeping me tied to this reality. Everything seems so ridiculous that I have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing maniacally.

Angela's still waiting for my response. I've got to say something, anything. I quickly try to calculate the amount of sorrow that won't arouse suspicion: enough to sound sympathetic but not so much that she'll question my reaction.

"That's … just so horrible," I say. But my attempt to rein in my emotion results in a flat, robotic tone.

Angela doesn't seem to notice. "Isn't it, though? I just can't believe he's gone."

I need time to myself. I am liable to slip up and react too strongly. Although Angela is my best, my oldest friend, she doesn't know everything about me, certainly not about Edward. Even just thinking his name makes my heart skip a few beats, my cheeks redden. I'd die before I let her know how deeply her news has affected me.

I can't have her asking questions. I've got to end this conversation. I feign a headache, and Angela tells me to go to bed.

"I'll talk to you soon," I promise.

I get up and pace, nearly losing my balance as I slip in my thick woolen socks on the hardwood floors. My annoyance at my clumsiness is a welcome distraction from the news. It's just another thing that's wrong with me. I practically need to hire a Sherpa to make it up and down curbs safely. I have tripped over the painted lines of a crosswalk. I've turned my ankle more times than I'd like to admit on those stupid cobblestones in Beacon Hill. The sad thing is that I love the antique, the gothic. They help me imagine that I live in another, more romantic time, a time in which maybe I'd somehow make more sense. But I wouldn't fit in there either, too prone to injury. I need to live in a world made entirely out of Nerf or encased in a gigantic hamster ball. No, I'd probably find some way to hurt myself there too.

My hand hurts, and I realize I'm still clutching the phone. I lay it down on my bedside table.

I'm fully aware that I'm avoiding thinking about the fact that Edward is dead. With Angela off the phone, I'm free from trying to work out how I'm _supposed_ to feel. But I'm still not sure how I _actually_ feel. I guess right now I'm stunned, maybe a little numb, still frozen from the bone-cold of the Boston February outside. Besides, Edward has existed in my imagination for so long that some days I wonder if he ever was real. So does it matter that he's gone? Would I even know the difference?

_Of course it matters_. I chastise myself for even thinking so selfishly. That's not what I meant, anyway. It's just that I have trouble believing that I didn't just imagine him, that he really exists. _Existed_, I immediately correct myself. Fuck.

Existed, past tense.

With that, it hits me. I start sobbing. I seem to have leapfrogged over a few stages of grief. Which stage is "motherfucking devastated"? Because that's where I am.

I wander from room to room aimlessly, barely seeing through my tears. My arms hang limply at my sides, and I don't have the energy to pick up my feet. I'm howling like a wounded animal, and I hope that my neighbors are out for Friday night, because I'm fairly certain the thin walls are doing nothing to muffle my cries. I end up in the bathroom, and I wonder where Edward is now. I imagine his spirit swirling around the infinity of time and space, and I am hit with vertigo. Even my tiny bathroom seems too large. It's like I'm walking in an Escher woodcut—I can't tell which way is up. Every way is up.

I'm going to slip away. I need to be contained. I climb into the free-standing bathtub already dry from my morning shower and sit down in my pajamas. Better. Safer. I hug my knees to my chest and cry a while, my sobs echoing a little against the tiles. My sobbing sounds ridiculous against my ears.

_Why are you crying, Bella? You have no right to cry_.

I don't. I don't have a right, not to cry as if my world were ending. Not like his parents. Not like his fiancée.

_He doesn't even know who you are_.

The sentence is devastating enough without being in the past tense. I don't bother correcting the tense in my head, because it will always be true in an eternal present. He doesn't know who I am. And now he will never know. Not now, not ever. No matter if I'm able to make something of myself and someday end up someone worthy of knowing.

And selfish as it may be when people in a small town thousands of miles away in Washington State are mourning the loss of their son, their brother, their friend, their lover, I weep because Edward Cullen will never know me. I cry until my eyes throb and ache and my breath catches raggedly in my throat. My face burns, and I lean it against the coolness of the side of the tub. Exhausted, my eyes drift closed.

* * *

I am not alone. I can feel eyes on me. Who is watching me? I turn around, glancing up and down, left and right, trying to see who is there. I realize I haven't spoken aloud since I've arrived here, wherever _here_ is.

_Is that you, my princess?_ I jump, hearing a voice. It's a man's voice, deep and rich and smooth like dark chocolate. Did I really hear that? Was it just in my head?

"Who's there?" I call out, trying to mask the fear in my voice.

I hear a rustling in the copse of trees behind me. The hair on the back of my neck is standing on end, and my body is poised for fight or flight. I see shadowy forms beginning to emerge.

_If I screamed in this place, would anyone hear me? Would anyone save me?

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_

I awake with a crick in my neck from falling asleep in the tub. Christ, what time is it? It's pitch black in the bathroom. I get up slowly, taking pains not to trip out of the side of the tub as I climb out. I perfunctorily brush my teeth without bothering to find the toothpaste. I go to bed with my socks on. I'm too tired to cry again.

_Goodnight, Edward, wherever you are_, I whisper to the darkness, hoping he can hear me.

The silence feels more empty than usual.

* * *

I'm running now, running as fast as I can from the trees. Whoever is out there, I am afraid. I don't remember how this works, the dreaming. It has been so long since I have been here, and I don't remember the rules. I'm running down the hillside. The grade is steep, but I amazingly don't lose my footing. I'm also not out of breath. I'm flying down the side of the hill, and it feels phenomenal: the wind in my hair, the grass under my feet, the sun on my bare arms. It's warm here. And I am strong and graceful. I grin like an idiot and run faster.

I keep running down, down, down the hill, feeling more alive than I have in a long time. My fear is slipping away. I run for hours, my body like a well-oiled machine. I don't even remember what I was running from. Why was I afraid?

Abruptly, I stop running, not because I'm tired but because I feel victorious and want to celebrate. I didn't know I was so strong. I raise my arms high as if I'm trying to embrace the sun. I close my eyes, letting the sun bathe my face.

When I open my eyes, I'm back at the top of the hill, back by the copse of trees, the shadowy figures. How … how did this happen?

_Have you returned, my princess?_ the dark voice says again. _Is that really you?_

I see movement in the trees. Someone is coming toward me. I am frozen with fear.

A rhythmic pounding wakes me from my dream. I am drenched in sweat.

* * *

"Bella! Bells! Come on! Get up, loser!"

Why am I afraid? Was I dreaming again? Two nights in a row, then? What does it all mean?

"Bells! We are going to miss all the good shit!"

Rosalie. I shuffle over groggily and open the door. Without being invited in or even taking off her snow-covered shoes, she pushes past me and plops down on the couch.

"Belladonna," she says, "we made promises to each other at commencement. I promised to be there to hold your hair if you were going to puke, and you promised you'd be ready on the dot on Saturday mornings to get our starving grad student hobo breakfast on. Are you reneging?"

I roll my eyes. "On the contrary, you know I never promised any of that. Besides, I'm a grad school dropout loser, so technically for me it's a grad student dropout loser hobo breakfast. And I haven't puked in ages."

Rosalie and I were roommates all four years at Longfellow University, yes, _the_ Longfellow University, pinnacle of the Ivy League, home of the best and brightest, training ground of the future leaders of the world. Rosalie and I were thrown together freshman year along with Tina the Nympho, Joanna the Howard Hughes-esque Loon, and Rachel the Easily Offended. Sure, Rosalie was crazy, but in a mild, fun way. We clung to each other as the only relatively sane inmates in our little corner of Ivory Tower Bedlam.

Maybe we wouldn't have been friends otherwise. I was shy and would have been too intimidated to open up to someone like Rosalie, someone so confident and tall and in-your-face gorgeous. But when Joanna would spend the evening clipping her fingernails, measuring them, recording her findings in a small notebook, and then carefully dropping little keratin half moons into an empty jelly jar, Rosalie and I would exchange horrified glances from across the common room as if to say, "That's … not normal, is it?"

When it got to be too much, Rosalie would drag me to the basement of Thoreau Hall, where they sold frozen yogurt until 2 AM. "I have to get away from those nutbars," she'd whisper in my ear, pulling me out of our suite and down the entryway steps. She'd yank me by my arm, laughing as we'd run across the quad to Thoreau, the sky an odd, bright shade of orange despite the late hour. I'd shriek and invariably trip over the flagstone walkways, sometimes taking down Rosalie with me.

We both stayed in Boston after graduation. Rose took a couple years off, working as a paralegal while she figured out if law was really the thing for her, and she just started law school in the fall. Meanwhile, I went straight into art school right after graduation and dropped out before she even got around to filling in her name with a number two pencil in Scantron bubbles on the LSATs. But Rosalie loves tradition—at least, she loves any tradition she's started herself. And tradition, ever since we've graduated and moved into our own apartments, is to forage for breakfast on Saturday mornings at the Trader Joe's across from the Prudential Building.

Today, assaulted with her bizarre routine is soothing, even anesthetizing. I let her energy infiltrate me and make me numb. She's got her hair pulled into a messy ponytail on the top of her head, and she's wearing pink Hello Kitty earmuffs against the cold. She's also wearing rainbow-striped legwarmers over her ridiculously tight designer jeans. Sort of like a Rainbow Brite you do _not_ want to fuck with. And yet, on Rosalie, this look works.

"Come on, come on, come on!" Rosalie claps her hands as if I'm a trained dog. "Chop, chop! Shake those tail feathers!"

This is exactly what I need. It's hard to wallow in death when there is such vibrancy around me.

I wash my face, for once grateful for the icy coldness of the water from the ancient taps. My eyes are still sore. I know precisely why, but I'm choosing at the moment not to think about It. I'm choosing instead to cloak myself in Rosalie's bright light. I force out the thoughts of last night, draw up the barrier. I'm afraid to think about It, worried that my mind and heart will break. I pull on stockings and jeans and then a big peasant skirt. Today I don't care if I look like the Michelin Man—I pile on two sweaters and a fleece vest. I finish off my outfit with knockoff Uggs. Yes, Uggs are ridiculous, but in New England they kind of make sense. They're furry on the inside and suede on the outside, like an inside-out sheep genetically engineered for foot warming in severe weather.

"You dress like a homeless person, you know," Rosalie says, eyeing my ensemble with disdain.

"Are you ashamed of being seen with me?" I ask, stepping into the hallway and locking my door behind me.

"I just don't want to draw too much attention to us at TJ's," she says as we clomp down the carpeted stairs. "You know how crabby I get if they shoo us away from the samples counter before I'm full."

"Are you _ever_ full?" I ask, shutting the apartment door and leaning against it as hard as I can as Rosalie swears and pounds on the glass with her fists. I make a break for it down the sidewalk. Rosalie's legs are about twice as long as mine, but the race is over before it's begun, as I slip on a patch of ice a few feet from the front door and land flat on my ass.

"That's what you get," Rosalie nods primly once she makes sure I'm not hurt. She does stop to help me up, and we shuffle down Boylston Street with our hands jammed in our pockets. I've got a scarf wound again and again over my face, only my eyes visible.

I'm already pretty numb by the time we reach the escalators leading down to Trader Joe's. Despite the scarf, my cheeks feel inhuman, plastic. Rosalie sprints down the escalator steps, but I'm too scared my boots, wet with snow, will slip on the slick, grooved metal. I cling to the railing and breathe as shallowly as I can, to prevent any possible loss of balance. With my luck, I'll get my scarf caught in the teeth at the bottom and be slowly strangled while employees in loud Hawaiian shirts stand around helplessly and flail their arms.

By the time I reach the samples counter in the back corner of the store, Rosalie is on her third tiny Dixie cup of Bay Blend coffee. I opt for a thimble of apple cider. There are tiny squares of a nutty coffee cake, and little pleated paper tartar sauce cups are filled with some sort of tapenade that makes no sense in any context at ten in the morning. It's no Grand Slam breakfast, but it's free, and it's tradition. It's actually a good day, because an employee is slicing up little cubes of smoked Gouda and impaling them on festive wooden toothpicks, the kind with the little colored cellophane flags.

We hover around the free samples until the grumpy Trader Joe's samples lady gives us the hairy eyeball. That's our cue. I end up buying a bag of soy sauce flavored rice crackers. We call them "crack crackers," because once you have a taste, you end up inhaling the whole thing and twitching on the floor until you can get your hands on another bag. I imagine Joe the Trader has quite the arsenal of cracker-whores in the storeroom. Maybe that's where all the Hawaiian-shirted employees come from. I should be nicer to the TJ's sampler lady. Next week I will smile more.

"Have time to go to the Common?" Rosalie asks.

"Sure," I shrug, still afraid of being by myself, still afraid of where my thoughts might lead me.

We wind our way through the Back Bay to the edge of the Boston Common, cutting through to Frog Pond, which has been converted for the season to an ice rink. I like watching the kids on their double runners, clinging to the wall, falling on their well-padded asses. Makes me feel not so clumsy and alone. Then again, these kids are, like, four years old. What's my excuse?

Still, it's nice to sit on a park bench, ass freezing off, listening to the happy shrieks of the kids, the scraping of blades on the ice. Rosalie and I share the bag of crack crackers. I hold my big mitten under my chin as my hand digs around the bag for the little, sesame-seed-studded rounds of crack.

A sudden peal of laughter draws my attention. I look up, and I see Edward in the corner of my eye, his gray peacoat, his beautiful, crazy hair, his Ray-Bans, skating effortlessly toward the middle of the rink. I drop the bag of crack crackers, the brown crackers pockmarking the mostly white snow around and under the park bench.

"What the fuck?" demands Rose, crouching down and deciding if crack crackers on questionable snow qualifies under the three second rule.

I look up again, and Edward is gone. Must have been a trick of the light. I do see a guy in a gray coat, but it's a trenchcoat, and he's wearing one of those floppy hats with earflaps. The hat is a rusty, coppery color, so it's possible that that's what it could have been. Just my active imagination. It's not the first time I've imagined seeing him.

It doesn't matter though, because my carefully crafted isolation chamber has been compromised. Last night comes flooding back. First my lip quivers, then my vision goes blurry, and the next thing you know, I'm sobbing into my hands, trying to muffle the sound as much as I can behind my chunky-knit mittens.

"For fuck's sake, Bella-Biv-DeVoe, I'll buy you another bag of the crack crackers," Rosalie says, trying to lighten the mood.

I don't stop crying.

"Bella, what is it?" she asks more gently, reaching over and giving my hand a little squeeze.

I feel like an utter ass as I mumble, "A guy I loved died in that plane crash yesterday."

"Oh, honey," Rosalie says, wrapping her arms around me. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

I don't answer her. I've already said too much. I don't deserve her sympathy. I am so selfish, trying at all to claim even the tiniest sliver of grief over the death of Edward Cullen.

My behavior sickens me, so I stand up and adjust my scarf back around my face.

"I think I should go home, Rose."

"Hon, are you sure you want to be alone?"

Of course I don't _want_ to be alone, but I am disgusted with myself._ I am not fit to be around people_, I think. _I took someone else's grief away and pretended it was mine_.

I can't get back to my apartment quickly enough. I race up the stairs and do what I do best: Google the shit out of the crash. The black boxes still haven't been found. Nearly two hundred people dead. Edward's name is mentioned in most of the articles, because he was probably the most famous guy on the plane, part of the B, C, or possibly D-list of up-and-coming musicians. I check out the Washington State papers online, going from the AP to the bigger newspapers right on down to the _Forks Dispatch_.

Of course it's the main headline on the _Forks Dispatch_ website. This is huge news. Edward Cullen is the town's biggest success story. My eye zones in on a small paragraph near the end of the article on Edward: _A memorial service for Edward Cullen will be held on Tuesday at Forks Country Day, in the auditorium._

_He doesn't even know who you are_.

I don't care. I need to say goodbye.

And before I know it, I've booked myself a ticket home.

I'm going back to Forks.


	3. Two: She Prepares to Return

**A/N: Um, wow. I wasn't expecting this kind of response, but, just, wow. You all inspire me, so this chapter came a bit sooner than expected. Thank you for the love, and thanks to the wonderful, wonderful women of Ravelry.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns this stuff; I own my neuroses. **

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****Two: She Prepares to Return**

I am living in a state of extreme nausea. My head is a hot explosion of disaster images, worst-case scenarios, and prickly panic, but below my neck I'm cold and numb. When I walk, I can't feel my feet, only the vibrations that travel up my body. I feel hollow, like the Tin Man. I find myself thinking of T. S. Eliot: _We are the hollow men / We are the stuffed men / Leaning together / Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!*_

Am I the Tin Man or the Scarecrow, then? Or maybe I'm the Cowardly Lion. That's the most likely. Where will I find the courage to do what I have to do? There will be no _Wizard_ _ex machina_ for me. Oh, but didn't he tell the Lion that he didn't need the Wizard, that he'd had the courage all along?

Bullshit.

I'm going to get on a plane. I'm going to get on a plane on a flight path roughly over where Edward Cullen died. But I will do it for him. I will do it because I need to say goodbye. I will do it because I want to be sure that this has happened. If I see the casket, if I see the freshly dug grave, the dark, moist earth, then maybe I will believe.

I call Charlie right after I've clicked the confirm button on my flight. My keyboard is slick with sweat from my clammy hands. Booking a plane ticket is no easy task, obviously, given my phobia. I've done a lot of research over the years. Your chances of being in a crash rise dramatically the more takeoffs and landings you add onto your itinerary, so it would logically follow that it's better to take the direct. But nothing is ever that simple. Only two carriers fly nonstop from Boston to Sea-Tac., but neither airline is a major airline. Smaller carriers are less safe than the major ones, which have flights in the millions, not tens of thousands. Then again, the larger carriers often outsource to smaller companies to save money, so just because you have a reservation with one of the big four or five doesn't mean you have the numbers and statistics of the big company behind you. I check all the airline fatality incidents on Airsafe(dot)com and weigh my options.

Of the two airlines that fly directly to Sea-Tac, one has a pilot's union, and one does not. I know these things because I frequent fear-of-flying message boards. I've been told it's safer to go with the unionized airline. But the other airline has had more fatal "incidents" (that's their term, and makes it sound more like a bar brawl or finding out your friend has been sleeping with your boyfriend than a catastrophic loss of life) in the last couple years than I am comfortable with. And it's not just airlines that matter—it's aircrafts. The Boeing 757 is fatality-free in the US. Airbuses scare me, but the accident on the A300 happened due to a rudder problem from flying in the wake of a larger plane. So, with a little hesitation and a lot of dread, I pick the airline without a pilot's union. It's not a 757; it's an Airbus. But it's an Airbus that is so far fatality free in the States. Fuck, I hate this so much. Every time I book a ticket, I feel like I'm playing Russian roulette.

There are times I hope that I am just being paranoid about it. Of course flying is safe. How can the plane _not_ fly? It's pure physics, not subject to the frailty of human inadequacy. It's the infallibility of the Bernoulli Effect and other stuff I don't understand. But I also don't understand how such a large, heavy piece of machinery can stay in the air. And because I don't believe in it, I worry I'll be punished, punished for my lack of faith.

Maybe he was afraid too. Maybe lack of faith is what killed Edward Cullen.

"Dad?" I say, after he gruffly answers on the fifth ring. His voice sounds rough, like maybe he hasn't spoken to anyone all day. He's not much of a phone person, so we don't talk too often. I don't have much to say to him either, actually, but I miss him a lot. I miss being in a room with him, just sitting quietly together. I haven't been home in ages, but I remember high school, how I'd sit on the couch with a book or my homework, and Charlie would be walking through on his way to refill his drink or grab his checkbook to pay bills, and he'd just … pat me on the head or something as he walked by. Like, "Hey, kid, I may not be able to talk to you, but I sure love you a whole lot." All that in a little pat, a little ruffle of the hair, a hand gently laid on a shoulder.

When I call him on the phone, it's not the same. We both feel obligated to speak, and that's just not who we are. I wish it would be okay to call him up and just sit in silence for an hour, listening to each other breathe. I would be able to hear the TV in the background, tuned to ESPN no doubt, and I could imagine Charlie sitting there with a TV dinner and a crappy beer, whatever they sell in bulk at Costco.

I hope he isn't lonely, but I never ask. I'm pretty sure he is.

He's come out to visit me a few times, when it became clear that I wasn't coming home because I was too afraid. I've managed to take short flights, nothing more than two hours. But I could not bear the thought of flying five hours over lakes, rivers, mountain ranges. So many places to die. So Charlie would come to me.

He came every Parents' Weekend at Longfellow, looking bewildered but so proud that his daughter was attending the most prestigious university in the country. He'd stop by the school bookstore and stock up on "I'm a Longfellow Dad" sweatshirts, key rings, and coffee mugs. He bought overpriced Longfellow University bumper stickers, although I was pretty sure he wasn't allowed to put them on his police cruiser. I'd show him around campus and point out the buildings where famous poets and scholars, patriots and presidents had studied, had slept, even supposedly had lost their virginity. He wandered, wide-eyed, reverently taking everything in.

But it killed me a little to see him struggling to fit in when my friends, parents, and I would all go to dinner together. Charlie would wear his one faded, outdated suit—his go-to suit for weddings and funerals—the pants hemmed just a little too short, the blazer cuffs a little too long. While the other parents would try to decide which wine would go best with the meal of dishes Charlie couldn't even pronounce, he would sit and stare at his hands folded neatly on the table, chew the end of his mustache, and wish he were invisible. He never said as much, obviously, but I knew that look, because I did it too.

Charlie clears his throat. "Bella! I was just watching the game."

I smile a little to myself, because of course he is. That is home. That is familiar. "Dad, I'm coming home on Monday."

I can hear Charlie choke and sputter a little. I wish I were there to pound his back hard. "Are you okay, Dad?"

"Bells—really? Do you think you can do it?"

No. No, I don't, actually. But I know I have to.

"I'll be there Monday. Do you think you can pick me up from Sea-Tac?"

"Of course, Bells. It … it'll be good to see you."

Hanging in the silence is the question he is wondering but won't dare ask. He wants to know why. Why now? What's changed?

Everything. And nothing.

I figure I'm going to have to start answering some questions sooner or later, so I just offer, "Uh, did you hear about that guy from Forks? In the plane crash?" I can't even say his name out loud. It's too precious, too secret. I button it up somewhere deep in my chest.

"Isn't it awful?" says Charlie, echoing Angela's words almost exactly.

"I … I think I'd like to go to the memorial service. He was in my class."

"Of course, Bells. That's … good of you. I'm sorry," he offers awkwardly in sympathy. Even over the phone I know he's not sure where to look, like he's avoiding making eye contact even though I'm not in the room with him. He's probably wondering why, after all this time, the death of someone he thinks I barely know would be the reason I'm clawing and grappling with my phobia to fly home. I bet he is wondering, on a level deeper than words, why he isn't enough for me to be so brave.

It breaks my heart to think of him sitting alone in our joyless house, thinking he's not good enough, so I just say, "I miss you, Dad."

"You too, kiddo."

"See you Monday." And that's that.

_I love you, Dad_, I add in the silence of my heart after he's hung up the phone.

I lie in bed for hours and stare at the ceiling. I can't sleep, too upset about Edward Cullen and too scared about the flight. I keep thinking of "The Hollow Men," and I recite in a hoarse voice to no one in particular, "Our dried voices, when / We whisper together / Are quiet and meaningless / As wind in dry grass / Or rats' feet over broken glass / In our dry cellar."*

I'm asleep before I can get to the next stanza.

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_Is it like this  
In death's other kingdom  
Waking alone  
At the hour when we are  
Trembling with tenderness  
Lips that would kiss  
Form prayers to broken stone.*_

I'm here again on the hilltop. Why can't I escape? The shadows hover in the trees. I can hear branches snapping underfoot, and soon I see a pair of eyes glowing like embers. I no longer am capable of running. I am fixed to this spot on the earth like a scarecrow on a stake, _headpiece filled with straw, Alas!_

_It __**is**__ you; I am sure of it now_, says the voice, and the shadow emerges.

Incapable of phonation, I find myself whispering, "Between the idea / And the reality / Between the motion / And the act / Falls the Shadow."*

He is here.

* * *

Sunday morning. I don't want to get dressed. I don't want time to move forward, because if time moves forward, I will eventually be on a plane. I eat nothing but cereal all day. And I draw. Rosalie calls around lunchtime, but I don't answer the phone. I'm ashamed to be around her right now. I know she will ask me how I'm doing, how I'm coping, because she is a good friend like that. I don't want her to know how ridiculous I am.

I do, however, leave a chickenshit voicemail with my temp agency, telling them that I have to leave town suddenly and won't be able to work next week. "There's been a death," I say, free to pretend that I'm remotely involved and mourning legitimately when I talk to these strangers. I probably won't be welcome back at the commercial real estate place for leaving on such short notice, but there'll always be another job. There's always another job, another job for the easily replaced, the same way it'll be easy for the commercial real estate place to fill my absence.

I let the pencil fly over the paper, barely even looking as I sketch. It's that place again, the place from my dream. I'm still shaken about the sudden return of my dreaming. Why now? Is it important?

When my mother Renee walked out on us, she took with her all the sunshine from our life. Forks is already a world hidden behind a veil of gray, shrouded in relentless rain or overcast skies, but when she left, she didn't just take away her stained duffel bag crammed with her whimsical, ridiculous clothing and her grandmother's tarnished silverware; she took with her the very light from inside the house. We were plunged into darkness, a darkness that seeped even into my sleep, leaving my mind as dark and silent as a black hole in deep space.

I was just five years old.

As children will do, I thought it was something I'd done that had driven her away. If only I'd been smarter, or prettier, or less clumsy, maybe I would have been enough to make her stay. Charlie was no help. I couldn't articulate what I was feeling, and even if I could, Charlie wouldn't have been able to comfort me with his words. He was practically catatonic anyway.

What he could do was take me fishing, as boring as it was. I think he felt sheepish about it, helpless, unable to think of any other activity we could do together, but the truth was that I liked to be by him, to sit in the boat, lean against his warmth. I would be exhausted from having to get up before the dawn, and, having no interest in the actual act of fishing, I'd eventually curl onto my side in the little rowboat and rest. The gentle rocking made me feel like Renee was lulling me to sleep the way she'd still done when I was sick. Five years old wasn't too old to be babied when I had a tummyache. I'd doze off, rocked to sleep by the unfeeling lake, in a gesture that felt like maternal love but was only the impassiveness of nature. And I would sleep without dreaming.

I glance down at my sketchpad, and I see that I've drawn myself tied to a wooden pole stuck in the earth. I am a scarecrow, waiting for something. The question is, what am I there to scare off? And who would possibly be afraid of me?

I fling the sketchpad away. Like it or not, I have to pack. Light is falling, and soon I will have to make my way to the airport. I'm staying only through the weekend, so not even a whole week. I take the largest suitcase that will still fit in the overhead compartment and throw clothes in it haphazardly. My panic mounts by the minute.

My panic outweighs my disgust, and I call Rosalie.

"Can you come over?" I ask.

"Of course," she says, not asking details, and she's at my door within the hour.

She surveys the mess of my apartment, clothes flung around, the open suitcase.

"Bellerina, what's going on?"

"I'm, um, I'm flying home." Oh my god, I said it out loud. It's happening. My chest tightens, and I lie down on the floor before I can fall over. I don't trust my legs.

"Are you serious? Are you going to be okay?" Rosalie has known me for so long that she knows this is a big fucking deal.

"Sure," I say from the floor, but I am not convinced. "I've got my meds. They help. Millions of people fly every day without dying, right?" I joke weakly.

I think again about the exception to that rule. Some people don't fly without dying.

"Listen, Rose," I ask, still from the floor. "Do you think you could stay with me overnight? Like old school slumber party?"

"Yeah, that's cool," she says. "I brought my reading."

I don't want to talk, but I don't want to be alone. I think Rosalie knows this, because she doesn't pry. She knows how I am. So we order a pizza, but I just watch her eat. My hands are so cold that I doubt I have the dexterity to feed myself. My stomach feels hollow and sour anyway.

Then I watch her do her reading for classes the next day. I'm too fidgety even to draw. I stare at the drawing of me as a scarecrow until Rosalie yawns and says she can't possibly read another word of Con Law.

"Take my bed," I say. "I'll take the couch."

"Are you sure?" asks Rosalie.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight," I say, and Rosalie gives me a hug.

"You know I love you, right?" I say. "You know, just in case I … I don't make it back?"

"Now shut the fuck up about that, Bella. You will be back in a week. Nothing is going to happen to you. And I love you too. Asshole," she adds.

Her profanity is oddly comforting. I sit in the dark for hours in my sleeping bag on the couch, listening to her impressive snoring.

It amazes me how quiet the city can be this time of night. I do hear a couple of cabs go by, but they are few and far between. I'm watchful, keeping vigil. I imagine I'm keeping vigil for him, as if I were his widow in another time. I wish I had candles to light, a photograph to hold.

Pink light begins to creep through the dirty windowpanes, and Monday is upon me. Maybe this will be the day I die.

I don't bother showering, but I do finally change out of the pajamas I wore all day. I zip up my bag, kiss the sleeping Rosalie on the forehead, and pull on my boots.

I have a plane to catch.

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*All poetry in this chapter is T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men."

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**A/N: Twirlgrrl, I know I promised you'd find out about the voice in this chapter, but it got pushed to the next. But soon, soon. **

**Reviews are pretty cool, but only if you feel the spirit move you. xoxo**


	4. Three: She Is a Point in the Sky

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who is reading this! And love to the Ravelry UUlandians. And extra special thanks to algonquinrt for Tweeting this to her peeps. Hi, everybody! (said like Dr. Nick)**

**Disclaimer: If a Twific falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, Stephenie Meyer still knows it made a sound.**

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Three: She Is a Point in the Sky**

It's snowing again as I leave my apartment in the faint morning light. I drag my rolling bag behind me on the bumpy, iced-over sidewalk. I'm walking to Hynes again, not relishing the idea of trying to take my bag through the uneven terrain of the fens. One rolling bag, one tattered backpack, one quivering heart. My legs still feel hollow and numb as I pick my way across the sidewalk.

Snow. As if it weren't scary enough getting on a plane today, it's snowing steadily. Maybe the flight will be canceled, a stay of execution granted by the heavens. But why should the heavens be merciful to me and not to him? What makes me more worthy?

My carryon bag thumps painfully against my leg as I go down each step into the Hynes station. Step, thump, step, thump. I know I'll have a bruise. Unsurprisingly, I slip and stumble as I reach the bottom of the stairs, but someone catches me. I see a gray peacoat, strong, wiry arms. _Edward Cullen_, I think, with a burst of hope, but when I look up at the face of my savior, it's an older gentleman with a full beard and a friendly, laugh-lined face. I look down, and his coat isn't even gray. I must be seeing things from not having slept all night.

"Thanks," I mumble, walking away quickly, embarrassed.

The platform is crowded with people heading to work, but since three different lines pass through the station, I don't have to wait long. I change to the Blue Line at Government Center. The train rolls in just as I go down the stairs to the platform. Of all the days I'd like the trains to be slow, so slow they cause me to miss my flight entirely, the T runs smoothly, effortlessly, the transfers as seamless as a trapeze artists leaping, full of trust, from a swing to the strong, outstretched arms of their partners. I am not surprised that the shuttle to the terminals is waiting right outside the doors of the Airport station. Of course.

I clamber on board on wobbly legs, and a kindly man about the age of Charlie hurries to carry my bag up into the shuttle without my asking. "Do you travel a lot?" I ask absentmindedly, before I realize he's in a uniform and doesn't look like he's about to go anywhere. His uniform and ID badge indicate that he is some sort of custodian. He's just coming here to work, just another ordinary day.

"No, miss, nowhere to go."

So this man comes here every day to Logan Airport, and it's just a job. He commutes with travelers humming with excitement and anticipation and grasping their suitcases, skis, briefcases: the corporate types traveling for business (despite having to work, they still must look forward to a change of scenery), the families with shrieking children traveling to Disney, the chatty, teenaged Europeans backpacking through the States and heading back home to their envious classmates, the lovers eloping or heading to their honeymoons, and yes, even the pathetic girl returning home to say goodbye to her love and her life. And through it all, this man stays behind to clean the bathrooms. Life changes around him, and he is the fixed point, like the sun. It's just a job. He doesn't seem unhappy, but I still want to cry a little when I think of it, that life is all around him in this transitional place, and he is destined always to stay the same.

"Thank you for my bag," I say.

He nods in acknowledgment, a little uncomfortable at having to make conversation. He pointedly turns to look out the window, signaling the end of our small and awkward conversation.

Terminal C is busy, travelers and employees milling around like bees in a beehive. As I take the escalator up to ticketing, I am struck with the realization that only three days ago, Edward Cullen was doing these very things. He went about his business like it was any other day, another trip to another gig. Ho, hum. I know he traveled so much that it probably wasn't a big deal to him. How could he have known that this time would be the last time?

Unaware, he walked up to the ticketing counter, sliding across his confirmation and driver's license with his charming smile. Or maybe he went to a self-serve kiosk. I find myself wondering if he were the type to be able to breeze through the touch-screen instructions to print out his boarding pass, or if he were flummoxed by technology, accidentally canceling his transaction and having to begin again several times. I am disappointed that I don't know, that I'll never know.

Still, I am retracing his final steps. I'm terrified but also feel strangely like I am honoring him, taking a pilgrimage, my steps atop his ghostly ones, like Good King Wenceslaus' servant: _In his master's steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted_. I know he wasn't in this airport, but all airports seem the same.

As soon as I get through security and sit down near my gate, the true panic begins. This is happening. This is really happening. I shakily reach into the front pocket of my backpack and get my prescription bottle of Lorazepam. I fumble with the childproof cap, nearly spilling the precious pills all over the nasty institutional carpeting. I manage to catch the explosion of pills in my skirt and get them back in the bottle. I place one under my tongue, tasting the strange sweetness of the dissolving pill. It's still a little gritty as I swallow the pasty remnants down. Only half an hour before I can start feeling the chemically-induced calm.

The ceiling-mounted flat-panel TVs in the boarding area are all tuned to CNN. But it's that pussified, edited-for-travelers version of CNN. They remove all the news about plane crashes, air disasters. It's so ridiculous. Do they really think they're fooling us? It doesn't make us safer. And just because the airport CNN pretends air crashes don't happen doesn't make them imaginary, does not stop these thoughts in my head of my impending death.

I know I'm not supposed to, but I take another pill.

When they call my section of the aircraft to board, I am hit with a strange feeling of resignation. Time to face my fate. The flight attendant scans my boarding pass, and I'm numbly aware that my name's been added to the manifest that they'll consult to notify next-of-kin should my plane go down. I shuffle forward with a grim determination. But the minute I step onto the jetway, my resignation yields again to panic. I hate jetways. They are deceitful. They pretend they are comforting hallways, the sort you might encounter in a safe building on the ground, but they are meant to trick us, to lure us into the plane. The floors feel flimsy and hollow, reminding you that it's all only an illusion of normalcy, of security.

I make my way to my seat, and a flight attendant helps me lift my bag into the overhead bin. I make sure to count the rows between my seat and the nearest exit row. I saw on a news program once that it greatly increases your chances of surviving a crash if you can feel your way to the emergency exit, since the first thing that usually happens is that the plane fills up with smoke. Three rows. Three. I commit the number to my memory and visualize myself feeling around for the seatbacks in a smoke-filled plane. Deep breaths, deep breaths. I'm trying to push my panic back down my throat, into a safer place somewhere in my stomach.

I take my seat with my backpack and pull out my sketchbook and a pencil. In the front pocket I also find one of Rosalie's scrunchies. I smell it and am immediately comforted, because it smells just like her. I put the scrunchie around my wrist. It's like she is holding my hand, helping me get through this. Maybe I can't die on this plane if she is waiting for me back on earth.

It's a nice thought, but I know that's not how these things work.

While I'm waiting for everyone else to board, I flip open again to the sketch from last night: there I am, tied to a wooden stake, my arms spread wide and lashed onto a horizontal beam. My eyes look crazed, and there is a dark figure hunched in front of me. _Let me be no nearer / In death's dream kingdom / Let me also wear / Such deliberate disguises / Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves / In a field_* … I shiver and turn the page. I don't want to look at that picture any longer.

I glance out the window, and the snow is still swirling about. I think about the ice accumulating on the plane, subtly altering the shape of the wings, messing with the Bernoulli Effect that lifts the plane into the air. The deicing truck comes by with its incongruously festive pink goo. It may as well be snake oil. I don't trust the process of deicing. I don't want to die today. I clench and unclench my fists, the pencil making a groove in my right hand.

The flight attendants shut the aircraft doors, and I suddenly feel cold all over, as if I've touched a piece of Ice-nine. The fear spreads along my skin, slips down my throat, through my blood, freezes my organs. I'm not going to make it. I'm not going to make the long flight. I'm trapped. I'm frightened. I'm so, so cold. I'm going to feel like this for hours, unless the plane plummets out of the sky first.

I try to remember the coping techniques I learned in my fear-of-flying class. Centering thoughts. All I can think about is Edward Cullen. I close my eyes and try to remember.

I'm trying to remember the first time I realized I was in love with Edward Cullen. I'd dutifully been going to liturgical music practice every Wednesday after school. The way Forks Country Day worked was that boys and girls were separated in all academic classes. It was basically like an all boys' school and an all girls' school fused at the hip like conjoined twins. We even had separate lunchrooms, and you were expected to stay in your side of the building unless you had a note from a teacher. The only communal area was the auditorium where we'd gather for announcements, award ceremonies, performances, dances, and masses on Holy Days of Obligation. And even for those co-ed gatherings during the school day, we were separated by gender. It made the boys forbidden and mysterious. And, if you were completely shy and tongue-tied like I was, like aliens or strange animals at the zoo.

The other girls found ways of being around the boys. They all seemed to know each other—all their parents were in the same social circle. They all went to cotillion class. I was at Forks Country Day on scholarship, and Charlie definitely was not of that social circle. He'd enrolled me there before fifth grade because my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Weber, whose own daughter attended FCD, thought I was too bright to stay in the public school system with its crumbling facilities and underpaid teachers. She was also concerned about my quietness and thought maybe a smaller school would suit me better.

See, once Renee left, I just didn't feel like talking anymore, not unless someone asked me a question directly. I'd never volunteer information. I would just read at lunchtime, or doodle my wolves in the margins of my notebooks, or stare out the window at the rain streaking down the windows like tears. The other teachers were just relieved that they didn't have another hellfire chatterbox in the classroom, but Mrs. Weber worried. She wanted to help. So she sent me home with a FCD brochure and called Charlie to talk about what she thought might be best for me.

It didn't occur to Charlie to be offended at her boldness. In fact, I think he was relieved about the outside guidance, as he must have been bewildered at the prospect of raising his little girl singlehandedly. He knew how to take care of my basic needs—food, clothing, shelter—but as far as what I might need emotionally, intellectually, he was worried he was deficient, stunting my growth. He was a little concerned about the whole Catholic school thing, since neither of us was particularly religious, but Mrs. Weber assured him that it wouldn't really matter, that there were mandatory services, but you could just sit there quietly and not participate. So he welcomed the advice, took a day off work to take me to the Forks Country Day campus.

I spent the day in interviews with the headmistress and teachers, took a few written tests, and the administration looked me over and decided I'd do. I was given a full-tuition scholarship, renewable every year provided I stayed in the top of my class. That was the easy part. Books, studying, understanding—that was like breathing for me.

I was surprised at what a relief it was to be around just the girls in class. I hadn't realized how much the rambunctiousness of boys that age had made me uneasy. The girls were, for the most part, friendly and inquisitive. They were too young to notice yet the difference in our socio-economic classes, and the daughter of the sheriff was a curiosity.

I came out of my shell about as much as I was able to, and I smiled more. I talked a little, very softly. I liked, at least, sitting with the girls at lunch and listening to their happy chatter like songbirds chirruping outside my bedroom window in the morning. Mrs. Weber's daughter, Angela, a kind, thoughtful soul, eventually sought out my friendship, and I finally had someone with whom I could sit in quiet companionship.

Still, Charlie worried. I was reaching an age when I should have been interested in boys, in going to the mixers that started in junior high. "It's okay, Dad," I'd say, when he'd asked if I needed a ride to school for the dance. "I'd rather just stay here with you."

So, he chewed his mustache, looked over the worn brochure Mrs. Weber had sent home with me a few years prior, and decided I would join a co-ed school group.

Only certain extra-curricular activities were co-ed: drama club, Model UN, yearbook, liturgical music. He picked the one that he thought I could handle, the one that would let me hide the most. He knew I liked to sing, how I'd warble erratically while doing the dishes, and he thought that performing only during school masses and in a group would be less pressure, since he figured the kids would be bored and not paying attention anyway. I was angry with him at first for forcing me into a new, stressful situation, but that was soon forgotten as I began to look forward to Wednesdays.

It turned out that Edward Cullen grinned so madly because he loved music with every cell in his body. He didn't care that no one would be paying attention when he played. I would hide behind my folder of music and try to peek at his left hand moving in a blur on the frets of his guitar to change chords, his right hand pumping forcefully when strumming or skittering erratically like a spider when picking. I couldn't imagine ever loving anything so much that everything else would disappear around me the way it seemed to for him when he played.

He was good at everything. He played guitar, piano, trumpet, and probably any other instrument you'd throw in front of him. I could have watched him all day, but rehearsal was just an hour and a half, and when Mr. Banner would dismiss us, I felt my heart deflate. I'd purposely take longer to pack up my music and bag just so I could stay in the room a little longer with Edward Cullen, who would glance at me and smile politely as he passed, pushing open the door with his guitar case and heading for his mom's station wagon outside.

I tried to memorize that smile and pretend it meant a lot more.

Once the doors had stopped swinging and I'd heard the car door slam outside, I'd whisper, "Bye, Edward," to the now-empty room and wonder if I'd ever have the courage to say it to his face. It even felt too familiar and intimate to say his name to the vacant room, the tip of my tongue on my alveolar ridge for the "d," my lips puckered on the "w." As soon as my whisper had dissolved back into silence, I'd shuffle out, scanning the parking lot for Charlie's cruiser. And I'd count down the days until the next rehearsal.

The captain's voice crackling over the speakers jolts me out of my memory. "Flight attendants, please take your seats for takeoff."

Oh god. Here it comes. I lift my feet off the floor of the plane. Like the jetway, the floor of the airplane feels false, hollow, insubstantial. When the plane is in the air, I don't like my feet to touch, worried they'll punch through the floor and cause the plane to go down. I slide my sketchbook into the seat pocket in front of me, tuck my pencil behind my ear, and grip the armrest with my hands. I glance around the plane, and everyone else seems calm, even bored. I would give anything for that kind of serenity. Instead, my insides are churning, and I'm bracing myself for the inevitable fall. I consider taking another pill, but getting another pill would mean letting go of the armrests. And I don't think I could let go if I tried.

It's choppy going up because of the snow, and I find myself analyzing every sound coming from the engine. The loud noises make me worried something is wrong, and when the loud noises stop, I worry even more. Eventually the plane levels out, and I can let go of the armrests for a moment. I take out my sketchpad and pencil again, flip my tray down, and open the pad to a clean page. I stare at the whiteness of the paper while the blood pounds against my ears.

When the flight attendant comes by with drinks, I find a handful of crumpled bills in my backpack and get a gin and tonic. I pound it back as soon as she hands it to me, my teeth chattering from the sudden chill, my face flushing from the gin. My eyes start to swim, so I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes. The booze and the two pills collide into each other, and I can feel myself slip away. Finally serenity has come, because I have forced it with my hand.

* * *

I'm waiting. He is here, a huge beast, not a man at all. Who was talking then? He is as big as a horse, but he seems to be some kind of wolf. _My wolves_, I think, remembering briefly my other life, the one that is hazy and strange when I am in this place. His teeth are bared, and he noses the ground, sniffing where I have trod. I'm still immobile. He circles me slowly, sniffing the whole way.

_You look different, my princess, but you smell the same. _I can feel his voice boring into my brain.

I don't think he will attack me, but I am not certain.

"Do you know me?" I ask haltingly. My voice crackles like crumbling ash.

_I have known you since before I was born_, he says.

"But have we met?"

_You Named me, so you created me_.

I have no idea what he means. "And what is your name?" I ask.

His glowing eyes seem to fade a little. _You do not remember my name?_

"I … I'm sorry, I'm just so confused. I feel like I've been here, but can't remember for sure." It's rather strange conversing this way, as I speak out loud to this gigantic wolf and he answers directly into my head. Maybe I'm imagining it all.

"Are you really speaking to me?"

_Are you?_

"Of course I am. I'm speaking out loud. I'm not even sure I'm hearing you, or if I'm making it up. Can you really talk? Is this real?"

_What is real?_

I don't have an answer for that, as nothing in this life or that hazy other life seems real. Nothing I know is concrete or solid or unchanging except for death.

I decide to ask something else that's been bothering me. "And why do you call me 'princess'? Why am I _your_ princess, or any princess at all?"

_You created me. I serve you. I protect you. You are my princess_, he says simply.

None of this makes sense. "Why can't I remember anything?" I ask, sitting down and holding my head in my hands.

_You've been gone a long time_, he says with a little bit of a snarl.

* * *

The plane drops sickeningly, and I wake up, gasping, my heart stuttering. It's happening. It's happening now.

"Don't like flying, huh?" says a voice on my left. I turn and see a man about my age looking at me with an amused expression.

I shake my head. I can't form words.

"Don't worry. It's just a little turbulence. The pilot even came on and said something about it a few seconds ago while you were asleep. You've been sleeping a long time," he adds. His words sound oddly familiar.

I nod and look out the window. The plane's leveled out again. I look down and see a carpet of blindingly bright white clouds not so far below the plane, and I can imagine I am skimming over Antarctica, an expanse of snow and ice, and it's kind of bleak and beautiful all at once. I put my hand up to the window and am surprised at how cold it feels. I can see the shadow of the plane on the clouds, and I am struck by how small the plane looks. I look around me again, and from the inside, the plane seems so large. I imagine myself hurtling through the sky, a tiny point in this large plane, the plane a tiny point in the enormous sky, the earth a tiny point in the universe, and beyond that? It is too frightening to contemplate.

"How do you do that, anyway?" the man cuts in again.

"Do what?"

"Draw while you sleep."

I look down at my sketchpad, and I've drawn a majestic, gigantic wolf with enormous fangs. _I know him_, I think.

"Some people sleepwalk," I reply with a shrug, knowing I haven't answered his question.

He is quiet the rest of the flight.

The flight attendants scurry around and get us to put our tray tables and seatbacks up, as we begin to make our descent into Sea-Tac. I slip my sketchbook again into the seatback pocket, the pencil in my hair. It will be over soon. When the pilot commands the flight crew to take a seat as we make our final descent, I want to cry with relief. Statistically I know that descents are about as dangerous as ascents, but I am just so glad to be coming down toward the ground slowly, gently, like drifting snow. After all, it's not the dying itself that I'm afraid of most—it's the falling. It's the falling and being aware that I'm about to die.

I shudder, thinking of Edward Cullen and his last moments, the falling, the terror he must have experienced. I don't want Edward Cullen to be afraid. A few tears escape my eyes, and I dab at them with Rosalie's scrunchie. I smell the scrunchie deeply, closing my eyes and trying to see her face, imagine her bravery, maybe hear her call me a fuckface or cuntwad to make me laugh.

The plane rattles in a horrific way, and I think we are crashing, but I look out the window and see we've already touched ground. As the wing flaps come up, I'm forced against my seatbelt. It strains painfully against my stomach as the plane decelerates quickly. We're here. We've made it. I'm back in Washington for the first time since I was eighteen.

I remove the sketchpad from the seatback pocket to put it into my backpack, and I look at my drawing again before flipping the sketchpad closed. The wolf stares at me with shining, menacing eyes. I look into them for a long time, brow furrowed, trying to make a connection. A name pops into my head.

_Jacob_. His name is Jacob.

I scrawl his name in the corner of the drawing and pack him away in my bag. I don't want to forget.

The seatbelt sign turns off with a bright chiming sound, and with the precision of a first-rate orchestra, all the other passengers simultaneously flip open their seatbelt clips and begin to stand in the aisles, waiting to walk through the deceitful jetway on this side of the country.

I slip my arms through my backpack straps and stand up. My seat companion helps me get my rolling bag down from the overhead compartments, and I walk, foot in front of foot like a tightrope walker, down the narrow aisle of the airplane. At the edge of the plane, looking down into the jetway, I take a deep breath, because I know my next step will start my journey to Edward Cullen's farewell.

* * *

* T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

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A/N: TwirlGrrl, you go right back up there and stop reading this author's note first, young lady!**

**Fun tidbit: I wrote part of this on a plane! CAN YOU HANDLE THE META?**

**Thank you for all your reviews. You make me want to write all day and night.**


	5. Four: She Returns to the Source

**A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FATS! Look, I made you a chapter of "Sleepers, Awake." I hope you are good and drunk when you read this.**

**Everyone else, thank Fats for the early arrival of this chapter. And check out the FUCKAWESOME banner she made for this story (it's linked in my profile).**

**And finally, THANK YOU for whoever nominated this for the Indie Twific Awards! Holy cow! I mean, crow!**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns; I put on layaway. **

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Four: She Returns to the Source**

Charlie's waiting for me by baggage claim in full uniform, anxiously studying everyone's face as if he's worried he's forgotten what I look like.

"Dad!" I shout and start running when I see him. My legs are still wobbly from the double-Lorazepams and the gin and tonic, but I manage to keep it together. As soon as I'm close enough, I let my rolling bag fall over, and I slam into him, throwing my arms around his neck. It's so good to see him. So good.

He does that Charlie thing where he's momentarily paralyzed, embarrassed at the affection, before raising his arms almost mechanically and patting me awkwardly on the back. His familiar gesture brings tears to my eyes. God, I have missed him so much.

"Well, kid, how much luggage do you have?"

"This is it," I say, picking up my rolling bag again.

"Good girl," he says, "not dealing with checked baggage bullshit."

I raise my eyebrows a little when he swears around me, and he just shrugs in response. Part of me is kind of proud that he thinks I'm grown up enough to swear around, but part of me is sad that I'm growing up and not a kid anymore in his eyes. Charlie takes the rolling bag from me, and I loop my arm through his and lean against him as we walk outside. It's at least twenty degrees warmer here than it is in Boston, even more if you take into account the windchill. It feels balmy. I stop and take off my parka.

"Aren't you cold?" Charlie asks, watching me hang the parka over my arm, and I'm glad he still worries about the little things like that.

"This is like spring in Boston," I say, and Charlie nods. We walk in silence to short-term parking, and Charlie hoists my rolling bag in the trunk of the cruiser. I take my backpack up front with me. I quickly text Rosalie, "Am on the ground. Not dead. Love you."

She texts back immediately, "Told you, loser. Con law sucks ass. Love you too."

Once we're on the road, I try very hard to keep my eyes open. But I've been up all night, and the relief of being safely on the ground again floods through me like an opiate. I lean my face against the stained webbing of the shoulder harness of my seatbelt and let the sleep take me.

* * *

The wolf is still watching me when I lift my face from my hands. My face is twisted in thought. There is something I'm supposed to remember. I tap my finger against my forehead, trying to jog my memory.

"Jacob," I say. "You are Jacob."

_You do remember me, then?_

"Not exactly. But I know your name is Jacob. It _is_, isn't it?"

_Yes_.

"Why couldn't you just tell it to me?"

_I do not have the authority_.

"Well, who does?"

_I do not make the rules here_.

"Then _who does_?" I demand. I feel like I'm a skipping record. I'm beginning to get irritated that he won't give me a straight answer.

_**You**__ used to, long ago. Before you went away. Before you left us_.

What? Left … I … what? I don't leave people. That's Renee. Renee leaves people.

"I don't remember doing that."

_Does memory negate fact?_

"I guess not," I say, still not convinced. How do I know I can trust him?

_Shall we walk to find the others?_

"The others?"

_I am not the only one._

"How do I know that you won't hurt me?"

_You don't._

"Oh." I swallow and rub my sweaty palms on the fabric on my thighs. I hadn't yet stopped to notice what I'm wearing here, a short linen dress, knee-length, loosely gathered at my shoulders. I've never worn anything like this before. In fact, I've never seen anyone wearing anything like this before. It reminds me of something I learned about in an early history of drama class. Chi-something. What was it? _Chiton_.

I can tell Jacob is growing impatient. He paces back and forth in front of me.

_Will you follow?_

"You might kill me."

_I cannot promise that I will not. But you are my princess. I can tell you that much._

Since I can't think of anything else to do, and since I know there is no way I could protect myself if Jacob should choose to attack me, I walk with him. The grass is springy and fresh, and his paws pad silently next to my bare feet. I can feel heat radiating from his body. We walk in silence for some time. It feels like hours.

The light is fading, and the moon rises in the crystal clear sky.

_We're almost there_, he says, nudging my hand with his wet nose.

"Where is 'there'?" I ask, but then I see a big, rushing river below. We've been walking at the top of a valley ridge. _In this valley of dying stars / In this hollow valley / This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms_,* I begin to pick my way down the valley's edge, and I lose my footing a little.

_You had better hold onto me, my princess_, says Jacob.

I'm not sure if it's a suggestion or a command, but I plunge my hands into the thick fur on his back and let him guide me to the water's edge.

* * *

"Bella? Bells?" Someone is shaking me. My hands twitch in my lap, trying to grab something in the air. "Bells, we're here. We're home."

With a sharp intake of breath, I open my eyes wide. Charlie's already gotten out of the car and opened the door for me. For a second I am reminded of all the times I'd fall asleep on the way home from those fishing trips, how I'd wake up partway up the stairs as Charlie carried me up to my bedroom.

I wish I were small again, small enough to be carried. I wish I could feel that safe again.

"You must have been tired, kid. You didn't move a muscle the whole way here." He takes my bag up the walkway to the house, and I follow him with my backpack slung over one shoulder.

The house looks exactly the same, which is unsettling. I almost forget that the place exists when I'm going about my day in Boston. After being away for so many years, I'd expected it to seem unfamiliar and unsettling, but what's unsettling is how _ordinary_ it feels, as if I have been here the whole time. As if my life in Boston is the dream. How can both places exist at once?

I walk through the open front door after Charlie. The familiar smell of the house nearly knocks me over, as I am transported back in time to an older version of me. Me as a child. Me as an awkward teen. Me just beginning to fall in love with Edward Cullen. I remember walking up these stairs after rehearsal each week, lightly trailing my hands on the banister, trying to remember his long, sinewy fingers dancing on the frets of his guitar.

I remember the first time he spoke to me. I'd gotten to rehearsal early, running all the way from my last class to the other side of campus in my penny loafers. My hair had come out of my barrettes in my eagerness to get to practice, and some strands clung to my neck damp with sweat. Outside the music room, I smoothed my hair and patted down my plaid uniform kilt. Edward Cullen was already there, tuning his guitar. Sometimes now if I find myself somewhere with a piano, I'll play the notes of the open strings of standard tuning: E, A, D, G, B, E. I let the notes ring, and I'm back in the music room with him again, watching him tune.

I could feel my face turn red as soon as I walked in, and I quickly took my assigned seat and tried to look busy, pretending to search my bag for my folder. He finished tuning and started playing something familiar, not something for the next service. Something popular, classic rock. It was a little riff on a rich, lower string, a quick turn around a note followed by a bright chord, the tonic. Another quick turn, and another bright chord, this time the dominant. I hummed along a little. God, what was the title of this song?

"You like Zeppelin?" he asked, looking up through the hair falling in his eyes.

"Y-yes," I whispered, looking at my scuffed shoes.

I glanced up again as he smiled and turned back to the guitar, continuing to play this song whose title was on the tip of my tongue.

My mind was racing, searching desperately in every crevice of gray matter to find something else to say to him, but neither of us said another word. I was too shy, and he was too engrossed in his music. I listened to him play, amazed that at thirteen he could recreate real songs from the radio. Soon the other kids burst in, and I'd lost my opportunity to impress Edward Cullen.

When I got home that evening, I tore my room apart, looking for the shoebox of Renee's old cassette tapes I'd hidden in the closet. When I found it tucked behind a box of my old school papers, I picked out all her Led Zeppelin cassettes. I listened to them all until I found the song he'd played: "Over the Hills and Far Away." If only I'd remembered, I thought. If I'd remembered, I could have said, "Oh, I love that song. _Houses of the Holy_ is my favorite." Maybe we would have started a conversation, an actual conversation where he'd say something, and then I'd say something, and then he'd say something back, and we'd keep talking, the way normal people did. But instead I'd just said, "Yes," and stared at my shoes, and Edward Cullen probably didn't even remember my name.

I spent that night listening to all of Renee's Zeppelin tapes, trying to commit each song to memory, so the next time we were alone I would be prepared. I fell asleep with my headphones on, slipping into dreamless slumber while Robert Plant growled and sighed and wailed into the darkness.

Charlie opens the door to my room and puts my carryon bag by the foot of my bed. "You need anything, kiddo?"

I shake my head and smile. "I'm good. Thanks."

"Well, I have to head back to work for a bit."

"Okay." I'm unzipping the bag and taking out the black dress I've brought to wear to the memorial tomorrow. I go to hang it up in my closet, which is empty except for a tangled mess of wire hangers and a long-forgotten semiformal dress still in a vinyl bag from the dry cleaner's. I try to extract just one hanger, but they're all interconnected like a misshapen Slinky. I finally pull one out, and about seven others clatter to the floor, sounding like an out-of-tune music box.

After I've hung up the dress, I turn around, surprised to see Charlie still standing there.

"It's good to have you home, Bells," he says, nodding once and heading back down the stairs before I can say goodbye.

I watch him from my window as he gets back into the cruiser and drives away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I sit cross-legged on my bed.

I sit on my bed, unmoving, until darkness falls and Charlie comes home.

* * *

* T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

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A/N: Hi, TwirlGrrl.**

**The next chapter won't be up this quickly, as I have been neglecting my other two stories. **

**Thanks for reading and reviewing. **


	6. Five: She Remembers the Beginning

**A/N: Right. Remember when I said I wouldn't be updating for a while? Well, this story is just spilling out of me, so here's the next chapter. I don't know if I can keep up this pace, but I promise to write when the spirit moves me. And today, it moves me about 3,000 words. Roughly. Okay a little under that.**

**Thanks, as ever, to the wonderful women of Ravelry Unicornia.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, blah blah blah, the usual, blah. *yawn* Bored now.**

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Five: She Remembers the Beginning**

"I'm home!" Charlie calls up the stairs the way I always remember his doing when I lived here. I wonder if he says this every day, whether or not I am here, just to feel less alone, or maybe out of habit. I wonder if he just says it in his heart, hoping I'll hear him from wherever I am in Massachusetts. I wonder if he's been thinking of saying it all day today while he was at work, because I've finally come back home.

"Hey, Dad," I say from my position cross-legged on the bed. I slowly stretch my legs out. They're a little stiff from my strange afternoon game of statues. I don't know how the time went so quickly. I was just sitting, thinking about how exhausted I was, and my mind went to nothingness. I wasn't even aware of my body. Maybe this is what it was like all those years when I wasn't dreaming.

I get up cautiously, making sure my legs haven't fallen asleep, and creep down the stairs. Charlie's already flipped the TV on. Since I was here last, he's upgraded to a majestic flatscreen. _Good for you, Charlie_, I think. He works so hard; he deserves a toy.

"So, Bells, thoughts on dinner?" He's got a stack of takeout menus in his hand, and he's waving them around a bit like a pompon. I momentarily picture Charlie as the Most Taciturn Cheerleader in the World, and I smile to myself.

"Oh, well, I was thinking that maybe I could make dinner. You know. Like the old days."

"Aw, no, don't go to any trouble. We should be celebrating because you're home, kid."

"I want to make dinner. I really do. And it's celebration enough getting to be here, you know, with you," I say, blushing and looking down. This is more than I ever really share my emotions with Charlie. I'm not sure which of us is more embarrassed by the display. Charlie clears his throat and rubs his eyes a little and suddenly seems extremely interested in the beer commercial on TV.

"Do you think those bottles really turn blue when the beer is cold enough?" he asks.

"It's like we're living in the future, isn't it?" I say, heading off to the kitchen to see what non-processed foods Charlie might have in the refrigerator.

Luckily, Charlie is a cheese fiend, so there are a few unopened bricks of cheese. I'm able to put together a massive homemade mac n' cheese casserole. We eat in front of the TV, balancing the hot plates on our knees. We eat in silence, but I still feel Charlie's love all around me like a warm and well-worn blanket. I sneak peeks at him out of the corner of my eye from time to time and catch him looking over at me with a rare, open tenderness, like he can't believe I'm really here sitting next to him. When something exciting happens during the game he hoots and claps and punches in the air. I'm too distracted thinking about the memorial tomorrow to be paying attention to the game, but I hoot and clap and punch the air along with him, like a little girl pretending to waltz by standing on her daddy's feet.

Before the game is over, I start yawning. The three-hour time difference is wearing on me, so I excuse myself to go to bed well before ten.

"So, Dad," I say, standing up and collecting our dinner plates, which look like lunar landscapes with their random formations of congealed cheese, "I've got that memorial tomorrow for … that boy." God, I still can't say his name in front of my father, or, basically, anyone else who knows him. I hope he cannot see how much I am blushing.

Charlie nods, eyes still on the game.

"Does the old girl still run?" I had seen my old red truck in the driveway when I got here, but as far as I know she's been untouched since I left for college when I was eighteen.

"Sure, Bells, I drive her once a week to get groceries. She's running fine."

"Okay, then, I'll just take myself tomorrow … unless you're planning on going."

"I'm going to be there a few hours early for crowd control and to help with traffic, so you'd better go on your own."

As I get ready for bed, I'm struck by how much smaller everything seems: the bathroom, the sink, the medicine cabinet, even the chipped soap dish. Have I grown so much, or is it just from living in the city for so long? Are people like goldfish, adjusting to fit the size of their habitat?

I pull back the covers and slide in. The sheets smell fresh, and my heart catches a bit thinking of Charlie doing the laundry and making up my bed for my arrival. He shouldn't have gone to all that trouble for me.

The moonlight behind the evergreens casts strange shadows on my walls, feathery, claw-like, alive. Are these the shadows I remember from my youth? Unlike before, when everything felt smaller, the trees have grown in my absence, and I feel dwarfed by these shadows. I feel like Gretel, lost and alone in the woods with her brother, as I curl onto my side and wait for sleep. I can hear Charlie hooting it up downstairs. Something good must have just happened.

His unbridled joy is the best lullaby in the world.

* * *

We are right at the water's edge, watching the stream swirl and eddy.

"So, what now?"

_You must come closer to the water_.

I take two tiny steps forward. The land is damp and muddy and squishes between my toes.

_What can you see there?_

I lean in, careful not to slip, and I can see my silhouette on the rippling surface of the stream.

"Just me. And a lot of water."

_You are not close enough_, he says sternly, and I take another tiny step. _Look again_.

As I lean forward again, the wolf gets up on his hind legs and leaps at me with his front paws. Against that force, I have no choice but to tumble into the water.

I don't have time enough to figure out if I feel betrayed or merely surprised before my body slaps hard against the water, knocking the breath out of me. The shock of the cold nearly stops my heart, and I've already taken in a big gulp of water into my lungs. _I am going to die here_, I think.

I'm choking and trying to come up for air, but eventually I stop struggling. I stop breathing. My linen dress floats up and around me like swirls of cream poured into a cup of coffee. I begin to sink to the bottom. I am dying. And I begin to see.

I can remember who I am.

I see the hilltop where I woke up in my shroud in the middle of the ruins, but it's not in ruins. The place is built with some sort of white stone, so bright that I'm squinting. _The Citadel_, I think, and I know this is the name of this place. I am just a child, a small child, but I have a bow in my hand and a quiver of arrows slung across my back.

I am not afraid of anything. I stand on top of the tower with an arrow on the string, always ready. I am the guardian of this place, and this place and its inhabitants are mine. Princess Izzy.

I see again the hilltop when I awoke, the rubble, the ruins, the vines, the sinister weeds. What happened here? Is this my fault? Where are all the other people?

What have I done?

I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder and a tearing, a tugging. Something pierces my skin, but the cold river makes it somewhat bearable. I see my blood tinting the swirling water, little ruby curlicues almost too dainty and charming to be the visual manifestation of the pain in my body. I'm being dragged backwards out of the water until I find myself on the riverbank on my back, looking up at the starless sky.

I turn on my side and vomit up the cold water. My lungs, for all the icy water they inhaled, are burning. The cool night air feels like knives in my throat. I see Jacob standing over me, staring at me with his glowing eyes. My shoulder is still bleeding from where he bit me to drag me out of the water, but my clothing, strangely, hasn't been punctured. Or perhaps it was and fused back together. Again, I don't know the rules of this world.

The wolf starts to lick my bleeding shoulder, and I'm getting ready to jump up and try to run away when I notice that the wound is closing up and no longer hurting.

_Don't move_, he says.

He howls once, twice, three times, and I hear rustling, leaves crackling, twigs snapping.

"Why did you do that?" I rasp.

Licking the blood—_my _blood—off his lips, he says, _I needed to stop the bleeding_.

"I don't mean about the shoulder. Why did you push me into the water?"

_You needed to remember_.

"Remember what it's like to be betrayed? To be nearly killed?" I raise my voice, increasingly furious at the danger he's put me in, and my heaving, angry breaths cause me to start coughing anew, vomiting again another stream of water.

_It was the only way. These are the laws. You remember now, do you not? Where you came from? What you used to be? What this place used to be before you left us?_

"Yes. Some of it."

_The rest will come_.

"Will it come if you try to drown me again?"

_The stream works only once_.

I'm afraid to ask how else he will try to make me remember.

_The others are coming—can you see them?_

I can't lift my head up yet, too exhausted from my ordeal in the river, but I hear footsteps approaching. I sense two more wolves as large as Jacob, and I somehow know they are approaching me with teeth bared, suspicious, hackles raised. With my eyes closed, I feel the heat-print of their bodies.

_Are you sure?_ says one of them. A female voice. _She was a child. This one could be an imposter._

I look around but can't see who is speaking.

"Who is that?"

Jacob growls. _You cannot see her?_

"No," I admit.

_Can you see me?_ says a third voice. Male, I think.

"I'm sorry, no. I can't."

_What good is she to us?_ demands the female.

_In time_, says Jacob. _She has begun to remember_.

He starts to circle me, and I can hear the footsteps of the two others going around me as I lie on my back, soaking wet, still staring up at the starless sky.

They are chanting something over and over as they circle faster and faster. I can see only Jacob, but I feel wind rush past me, chilling my skin, as the others circle behind him.

It takes me a while to separate the chanting into separate words, but eventually I tease apart the phrase like a tangled ball of string until I understand.

_You are ours, you are ours, you are ours, you are ours, you are ours_, they say.

* * *

The slamming of the cruiser door as Charlie heads off to the memorial jolts me awake. I can't stop coughing. My room is probably extra dusty from having been vacant for so long. I go to the bathroom and drink water from the tap out of my cupped hands.

I take a long, hot shower. I just can't seem to warm up today. The bathroom is unrecognizable, mysterious with steam, when I finally pull the shower curtain back after toweling off. I brush my teeth in the mist, unable to see my reflection.

When I return to my room, I take the lone black dress of its hanger in the closet and lay it on my unmade bed. Once again, I am dressing for Edward Cullen.

Rosalie once asked, as we lay on our backs in the common room eating Fritos and sour gummy worms while pretending to work on our problem sets, how you knew you had a crush on someone. She was speaking hypothetically, as Rosalie didn't have crushes. She didn't need to have crushes. If she liked someone, she pretty much told the guy, and the guy would be fucking grateful she'd picked him. But she did like having these faux-philosophical conversations. I think it was, to her, part of the college experience.

"I don't know," I'd said. "When your heart does that thing when the person walks by, and you want to barf?"

"Hmm," she said, biting the head off another gummy worm. "No. It's got to be more concrete than that."

"When you have fantasies of marrying the person and having a million babies?" I offered.

"Better, better. Keep throwing out ideas."

"When you sneak into the person's residential college dean's office and bribe the dean's aide to let you see the person's schedule, so you can be sure you'll run into the person during the day?"

"Bella, you evil stalker freak! Have you done that?"

"Um, _no_," I said, offended and throwing a Frito at her.

"You bitch, you got, like, corn dust in my _eye_!" she shrieked.

"It's exfoliating," I said, grabbing the Fritos bag and tub of gummy worms to avoid retaliation as Rosalie chased me around the room.

After we'd settled down, I tried again. "Maybe," I said, remembering and blushing, "it's when you wear makeup and dress up and do your hair nice just in case you run into the person. And you always look for that person no matter where you are."

"Bingo," said Rosalie. "You are like Samuel Fucking Johnson, but way cuter. Way less like a melting bladder-like old dead British dude."

"Uh, thanks?" I said, and we went back to Fritos, gummy worms, and problem sets.

A few months after I met Edward Cullen, Wednesdays, rehearsal nights, were dress-up days. I wonder now if anyone else noticed. I brushed my hair, one hundred strokes, scrubbed my face until it glowed, made sure to wear earrings, lip gloss, and even dabbed a little tween-marketed "cologne spray" from CVS behind my ears. Times like this, I wished Renee had stuck around to advise me.

There wasn't much I could do about the school uniform, but I spent Tuesday evenings ironing my shirt and kilt. I shone my shoes. I probably looked like a colossal dork.

I think of all this now as I look at my black dress on the bed, as I prepare, for the last time, to dress to meet Edward Cullen.

I step into the lined silk dress and zip up the back. I hop and slither into the unworn pair of pantyhose I purchased a few years ago from the drugstore for an interview at an academic publishing company that I chickened out of at the last minute. I brush my hair, one hundred strokes, and slick on some lip gloss. I even curl my eyelashes. _Who do you think is going to see you?_ I ask myself, but I put on mascara anyway. I forego wearing fragrance. I pull the comforter back up on my bed and sit on the edge, breathing deeply for a few minutes before I slip on my black heels and head out the door.

The red truck waits for me like an old friend, and I struggle to climb inside. My leg catches on something by the door, and my pantyhose runs. No big surprise there. Pantyhose and I are often soon parted.

I shut the door and sit in the cab of the truck with my hands on the wheel for a long time, the key in the ignition. It could be any day in high school. I could be driving to a long, boring day in AP English, AP calculus, AP everything, hoping to catch sight of Edward Cullen in the parking lot, trying to spot his deep reddish hair across the auditorium toward the boys' side of the room during announcements.

Instead, I am driving to Forks Country Day to say goodbye forever. I am driving to see him and not see him. Or rather, to see him, but with the knowledge that he will not see me.

And in that way, this day is already very, very familiar.

**

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A/N: So can you believe it turned out to be Snape? (Sorry, TG, I'm just fucking with you. Puffy hearts!)**

**Thanks for reading. Reviews are lovely. Having readers is lovely as well. Everyone is lovely, except for me, yet unshowered after my day of travel. I am going to shower now. Yes, this is information you needed to know.**


	7. Six: She Looks for the Body

**A/N: Your reviews continue to inspire me, so thank you. Thank you so much for reading, for sharing this story with others.**

**Love to my home skillets at Ravelry.**

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Six: She Looks for the Body**

The parking lot at Forks Country Day is, predictably, jam-packed. Charlie, so often called upon to guide traffic for funerals, once told me that the younger you go, the more people show up to your funeral. Is it because more people you know are still alive? Is it because people want to gawk? Is it because they want to convince themselves that you bear no resemblance to them, that they are not destined to follow in your footsteps to such an early grave?

The lot is filled with expensive foreign cars, and my old junkheap sticks out like it always has, the loudest, plainest car shielding the shyest, plainest girl.

It was hard being a scholarship kid. Even with school uniforms, it was easy to tell who had money—pretty much everyone but me. I think my car was the only used car in the entire school lot. And it couldn't be, say, a cute little used Honda or Toyota, which would have been different enough from the brand new Porsches and BMWs, oh no. It was like that broke-down, gap-toothed, country bumpkin truck from _Cars_.

When I turned sixteen, I did not expect a car. I knew we were too poor for that. But Charlie had other ideas. He must have scoured the classified ads for months to find something he could afford that still was functional. I woke up on my sixteenth birthday because some asshole was obnoxiously blaring a horn outside at six in the morning. I groggily made my way to the window to discover that Charlie was the asshole, honking the horn of my new-to-me truck. He'd even put a bow on the windshield, not like those giant bows you see on Lexus commercials at Christmastime, but a plain, drugstore, ninety-nine cent bow. It looked both cute and ridiculous, like false eyelashes on a hippo. I ran out of the house in my pajamas, my slippers quickly soaking up the morning dew on the lawn, and hugged him. And then I punched him in the arm for being so extravagant. He rubbed his arm as if I'd hurt him, but his mustache twitched, and I knew he was smiling.

But when I pulled into the parking lot, I felt self-conscious. I'd never felt so much like an outsider. I mean, I knew my clothes weren't quite right and that I was the only girl in my class who didn't even carry a purse, but the uniform skirt let me blend in somewhat. But there was no blending in with this car, and I hated that Charlie's spendthrift gift should embarrass me so. I hated to be ashamed of him, of what we were. I'd loved this car until it sputtered and coughed its way onto Forks Country Day's property.

One of the rougher boys, Tyler, sniggered as I slid out of the cab. "Nice ride, Swan." I was surprised he even knew my name.

Edward Cullen was standing with him, rubbing an apple clean on his uniform shirt. "Don't be an asshole, Crowley," he said. I stood there immobile, staring at my feet. _I thought people were supposed to be nice to you on your birthday_, I thought.

"But check out that bumper! It's rusted to shit!"

My hands clenched into fists, and I was trying to decide if I were going to cry or deck him.

"Fuck off, Crowley," Edward Cullen said, and he peeled the little sticker off his apple and pressed it onto the most dented part of the bumper. "Seal of approval," he said with a small smile before turning and walking away, leaving me staring and open-jawed at his retreating form.

What just happened? I walked to the bumper of my car, and, after making sure no one was around, ran my finger over the apple sticker. He'd never given me anything before—what reason had he? I knew it was just a stupid little sticker from his apple, but already it was like a holy relic to me.

I had a banana in my brown bag lunch, so I peeled the Chiquita sticker off of that and put it next to his apple sticker. Every morning I put another sticker on there, and pretty soon everyone in the school was doing it, whether or not I was there. The bumper was soon covered with fruit stickers of all kinds, and it became almost like the mascot for the school. No one ribbed me for it after that, and even people who didn't know my name knew I was "the girl with the truck."

And it was all because of Edward Cullen.

I spent ages thinking about it. I still wondered now. Why had he done it? It wasn't because of me, I don't think. I think it was because he hated injustice. It was right around the time his parents had adopted that little girl—Alice, I think her name was. I heard that Dr. and Mrs. Cullen had always wanted a girl. Edward Cullen had a brother, Emmett, a few years behind us.

I don't know how Alice Cullen came into their lives, but something wasn't right about her. Her eyes were haunted. Word on the street was that something awful had happened to her birth mother. She acted like a frightened, wild thing, and she did not speak. I didn't ever see her much, because she needed to go to a special school, but I always felt drawn to her, or at least the _idea_ of her, remembering too well what it was like not to want to speak.

At lunchtime, I'd try to sit near the girls who knew Edward Cullen better, the ones who were in cotillion class with him. Angela and I would sit at a table, and my back would be toward Jessica Stanley and Lauren Mallory. I'd pretend to be listening to Angela, but I'd really be eavesdropping, trying to find any crumb of information about Edward Cullen that I could hoard away in my heart. It was like I was trying to make a portrait of him in my mind, a mosaic made of overheard snatches of conversation.

"She's totally weird. Kind of creepy," Jessica had said. "My mom and I were over the other day, and she just stared at us."

"Is she retarded or something?" Lauren was not known for her compassion.

"I don't know. Mom said Dr. Cullen didn't think there was anything physically wrong with her, just that she didn't talk. No one's ever heard her say anything. He called it something … something mute something."

_Elective mutism_, I filled in for myself. After Renee had left and I talked less and less, it was a word I'd heard thrown around me by concerned doctors and school counselors. But I didn't fit all the criteria. I was just sad, I think, too sad to make the effort to talk. Poor girl, I'd thought. I felt a kinship with her though we'd never met.

"Freaky mute." I could hear Lauren audibly shudder. "How can Edward and Emmett stand to be around that?"

I heard a lot of people gossip about the poor mute Alice, and it made me furious. She was only five years old, the same age I was when Renee left us. I probably overidentified. I saw Tyler Crowley with a black eye one day, and I heard it was because he'd said something insulting about Alice within earshot of Edward. I was a little shocked, since Edward Cullen seemed so quiet and peaceful. I also couldn't believe he'd do anything that might hurt his hands, his precious hands. His music was so important to him. But I had to believe it when I saw him in the parking lot with his hand bandaged up.

I loved him even more that day, knowing he'd put all that on the line to protect his family, to defend this defenseless girl who wasn't even his family by blood. He'd given up playing guitar for as long as it took his hand to heal up again, risked never playing guitar again. He probably hadn't even thought of the danger, of what he might be giving up. And I found myself a little jealous of Alice, to have such fierce love and protection, to have Edward Cullen's love.

I found myself jealous of a traumatized, orphaned mute girl.

People are streaming in from everywhere into the auditorium, and there are even a few news vans. Edward Cullen was just starting to make a name for himself on the indie scene, singing and playing his guitar. Sometimes he'd play piano. Sometimes there was a mournful cello played by a friend of his from conservatory. He had a MySpace music page with thousands of fans. I listened to his soundclips a lot, an embarrassing lot. I sometimes imagined friending him there. But he wouldn't remember me, or he'd find it creepy. Either way, I couldn't bear it. I'd let the cursor hover over the "Add to Friends" button, palms sweating, daring myself to click. But I never did, and now it's too late, another line on my list of regrets.

It's sunny today, about as sunny as it can get in Forks. Blades of light pierce through breaks in the clouds, and it seems wrong. Just wrong. The heavens should be weeping today. I blink back tears as I file into the auditorium. I can barely see, just focusing on the legs of the people in front of me.

I am startled as someone grabs my arm.

"Bella? Oh, god, Bella, is that you?"

_Fuck_. It's Angela. How am I going to explain myself?

"Hey," I say sheepishly.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

I just shrug.

"Did you … oh god, did you _fly_ here?"

"Yeah. Yesterday." My stomach flips over, remembering.

"I can't believe you flew! Oh, Bella, it's so good to see you!" And she squeezes me hard, and I'm sobbing, because I suddenly realize I have not let myself miss Angela these years as much as I really do. She is like my sister. She is _home_.

"I've snotted all over your sweater," I say when I finally am able to speak again.

"Please, after two kids? That's nothing. And I mean, _nothing_." She smiles warmly and takes my hand. "Come inside. I think there's room in my row. And you can meet Carla and Patrick."

I feel like the worst friend in the world that I have never met her babies. I did make it to her wedding, but only because she and Ben Cheney decided to get married at his grandmother's place in North Carolina. I doped up enough to fly the two hours there. She said it was the best present I could have given her, as I stood weaving from side to side in front of her, trying my best not to vomit on her satin bridal shoes.

I shuffle sideways into the row and nod to Ben, who looks exactly the same as he did in high school but with an "I'm a Serious Dad" beard. He's holding a wriggling toddler on his lap while a little girl stands, using the seat next to him as a desk as she colors furiously on a sheet of paper, getting crayon on the chipped and splitting wood. Angela says, "Patrick? Carla? This is your Auntie Bella. Can you say hi?"

Patrick chews on his chubby fist thoughtfully, and Carla doesn't stop coloring. "Hi, BellyBelly," she says, furrowing her brow and leaning into the paper with her purple crayon.

"Carla, Auntie Bella made Patrick the wolf book!"

She stops coloring and looks at me with serious eyes. "I yike da wolfs," she says. "I yike da yiddle girl. She hazza pwetty dwess." She turns back and colors some more. Angela shrugs, smiling.

The memorial service is beginning. I crane my neck around. _They're going to bring in the body_, I think, and I brace myself. His precious body, can a wooden box contain it? Can his beauty be confined within six flat planes? Can the joins hold together and not break apart from grief?

But there is no body, only a large framed photograph of him on the stage. As his family files in, I whisper to Angela, "Where is the body? Where is … he?"

Angela whispers back, "They haven't recovered all the bodies yet, I guess. The Cullens said they'll have a proper burial later, if they find any … parts matching his DNA."

My heart sinks. _He's not even here. Where are you, Edward?_

His family sits at the front, facing us: the mourners, the spectators, the gawkers. Where do I fit in? Emmett has puffy eyes, and Dr. and Mrs. Cullen look absolutely shell-shocked. I can't imagine their grief. I look at Mrs. Cullen, and the pain in my chest is unbearable. _She carried him inside her for nine months_, I think. _She felt him flutter and stretch and kick and watched him grow into this amazing person. And now she will never see him again._ I think of the ache in my belly, my umbilical ghost, and I wonder if mothers feel it too. How far does her umbilical ghost stretch now? Or is it severed completely? _He was her little baby_, I can't stop thinking, _her sweet little baby_, and I put my head in my hands and sob. I really should have brought tissues. I don't know what I was thinking.

Angela, the ever-ready mom, pokes me in the arm and hands me a purse pack of tissues. "Thanks," I mumble, and dab at my eyes. Oh my god, my mascara. The tissue comes away with splotches like India ink. I look over to see if she thinks my behavior is odd—am I crying too much? Does she know?—but she only looks concerned about me. Her eyes are just a little misty. She's got Carla on her lap now, and she's kissing the top of her head. Watching this tender little scene of motherhood tears me in two. I weep again, thinking of Mrs. Cullen. How many times did she hold Edward in her lap, kiss the top of his head? And I weep, remembering, as if in a dream, what it was like to have Renee's arms around me like that, her lips on my hair. Maybe it was only a dream. I can't even remember. I can't remember if she ever loved me like that.

I don't know where Renee went when she walked out on us. Was there someone else? I'm not sure. I don't know if Charlie knew, but I do know that he never would have told me if there were. But I knew she was still in the area, and she would usually send a card for my birthday and Christmas. She never left a return address, but the postmark was always in Washington. So I knew she was close by and chose not to be with me, not to see me.

Sometimes I hate her a lot for that, but it doesn't stop me from feeling the ache in my belly when I wake with a start in the middle of the night. I still want my mommy. And I hate myself for needing her so much.

I rub my eyes dry, trying to get off all the mascara. I lean over to Angela and say, "How do I look? Raccoon eyes?"

"No, sort of heroin chic," she says with a small smile. "It's okay." And she gives Carla another little squeeze.

"Thanks."

And I focus again on the service. I look at the slim, raven-haired young woman at Emmett's side, and I wonder if he has a girlfriend. She seems awfully young for him. And then I realize, of course, that this must be Alice. I do some quick math—she is now thirteen. Her other childhood ended with something so horrible that it took her speech, and she enters adolescence now with the loss of her brother, her protector. Her eyes look even more hollow than I remember, and she's biting her lip and wringing her hands and rocking back and forth a little. But she isn't crying. Mrs. Cullen puts her arm around her shoulders, and Alice leans against her adopted mother's shoulder. Oh, Alice.

I think of one of my favorite, secret memories of Edward Cullen, of spying him and Alice in the playground at the local park. I was on my way to the public library to get some books for a research paper, and I saw his familiar shape on the hill, his familiar Edward shape. I could always find him, because his shape was always an absence in my retina. There was an ache in my eyes until his Edward shape fit into the retinal outline.

He was pushing Alice on a swing, and she was smiling, really smiling. I'd never seen her smile. I mean, I hadn't seen her much, not ever. I stood a ways away and watched them from behind a tree, my hand lightly leaning on the rough bark. He pushed her for such a long time, never tiring, never complaining, and she just smiled and laughed silently. So different from that haunted girl. He transformed her.

And now I look at her, once again hollow, empty. Will she ever smile again?

"Is that Alice?" I whisper to Angela. She nods. "Did she ever start talking?"

"No," she says, giving Patrick a small Tupperware of Cheerios. "She's never said a word. She goes here now, and the teachers just let her do everything in writing. The other kids leave her alone."

I'm glad no one is tormenting her, but if they are leaving her alone, it means they're also not trying to be her friend. Who makes her smile? Who takes the time to know her? Who is going to help her figure out how to grow up?

Emmett gets up to talk. He's got a stack of papers, and Dr. Cullen kind of claps him on the back as he walks up to the podium.

"Hi, um, as most of you know, I am Edward's little brother Emmett. My family thanks you for coming here to support us. The last week has been a shock, as you can imagine.

"Edward was the best brother a guy could have. He knew everything, he protected the ones he loved, and he poured his soul into his music. He was going to be a superstar. Everyone knew that. Even his hair knew that."

There are a few sob-tinged chuckles. Edward's hair did have a life of its own, messy, sexy, completely melt-worthy. How I dreamed of putting my hands in his hair, wondering if it would be soft, or sticky with gel, or stiff with spray. What did it smell like? Another thing I would never find out.

Emmett clears his throat and continues, looking at his papers. "I don't really know what I'm supposed to say. I never imagined I would have to write a speech like this, at least not until I was old and incontinent and wearing my pants up by my armpits.

"Edward, I always thought you'd be there for me. You lived life a few steps ahead of me, stamping out a path so my way would be easier. So I'd know the way. And now, now I'm … totally lost."

Emmett starts to cry. It is hard, so hard, to watch a big, strong guy like Emmett break down. Oh my god, why did I come here? The pain around me is practically tangible. I've got a tissue balled up, and I'm pressing my fist against my mouth, trying to hold in my keening. It is taking everything in me not to cry audibly. I try not to breathe, not wanting to fuel my sobs. The French have such a better word for _sob_, I think: _sanglot_. It captures more of the sorrow, the desperation, the catch in the heart, the breath that is ragged from being torn on the edges from grief. I find a little comfort meditating on the word. _Sanglot_. The word fills, a little, the emptiness.

"I … I'm sorry, I can't finish. Just … thank you for coming. We appreciate it. Edward, I love you, big brother. I hope you're out there, still looking out for me."

He shuffles back to his seat, and the Cullens surround him, hugging him, weeping. Alice's face crumples, but her eyes stay dry. For a second I think she is looking right at me. I wonder if she knows.

There's a receiving line of sorts after the service, and I get in line. I don't know what I'll say. Angela's kids are fussing, so she says she and Ben had better go and feed them lunch. We make tentative plans to meet up before I go back to Boston. She hugs me again, and I thank her for the tissues and kiss her on the cheek and watch them make their way to their car.

I shuffle forward in the line like I'm waiting to get through security and the turnstiles into Fenway Park for a baseball game. If only this were an ordinary line like that, one with something wonderful on the other side, walking through the tunnel and emerging in that magical world of emerald green fields, bright lights, so much happiness and palpable excitement. But no, at the other end of this line is only despair and loss.

I'm finally at the front, and I don't know what to do. Do I hug his parents? Do they know who I am?

Stupidly, I hold out my hand like I'm at a fucking cocktail party. "Hi, I'm Bella, Bella Swan. I was in Edward's class." It feels strange, too revealing, to say his name finally out loud. Dr. and Mrs. Cullen look at me blankly. They don't know me.

"Thank you for coming," they say, pressing their palms to my hand in turn. I walk over a step or two to Emmett.

"Hey, Emmett. It's Bella. I'm so, so sorry," I say.

"Bella," he repeats blankly, taking my hand. His looks at me, unchanging—not a flicker of recognition. He doesn't remember me either. My heart sinks. I feel invisible. I ask myself for the hundredth time today why I have come here.

I feel increasingly stupid as I continue down the line. "I'm so sorry, Alice." I don't bother holding out my hand. She looks at me, practically right through me. I shiver. She doesn't move.

There's one more person in the line. "Bella," I say, holding out my hand again. "I'm … I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," a heartbreakingly beautiful woman with titian hair and red-rimmed eyes says. "I'm Tanya."

Oh. Tanya, his fiancée. Of course.

I walk in an imitation of calm to the auditorium exit, and then I run as fast as I can to the truck. I need to be alone. I need to be away from everyone. I make it to the truck and gaze at the bumper, covered still with hundreds of little fruit stickers.

Frantically I scratch through years of accumulated dirt and bird shit, peeling off a few layers of stickers, looking for the one that Edward gave me. I can't find it. I wouldn't recognize it if I found it. They're all the same. _If you were meant to be together, you'd be able to find it_, I think. I sink to my knees in front of the truck, wailing. The parking lot is fairly deserted, people still milling around, waiting for the reception the school has provided. I put my finger in the deepest groove of the bumper, knowing that his sticker is there, and the knowledge somehow gives me the strength to get back into the car and drive home.

My knees are gritty, and my pantyhose is completely ruined. I kick off my shoes in the foyer of the house and go up the stairs in my stockinged feet. I curl onto my bed on top of the covers, draw my knees up to my chest, and close my eyes. Why am I so upset?

I hadn't realized how much I'd been hoping that I'd introduce myself to his parents and they'd say, "Oh, _you're_ Bella Swan. Edward loved you, you know." Or even, "Oh, Bella, he talked about you all the time."

They didn't even know who I was.

The last tiny bit of hope I had held in my heart, a tiny tea candle against the hurricane winds of my doubt and self-loathing, was snuffed out with their empty glances. My pillow is soon hot with tears, and, exhausted, I let myself slip away.

* * *

Jake and the invisible wolves are still circling me. Slowly I sit up.

"Leah," I say, and I'm not sure if my eyes are playing tricks on me as I see a smaller gray wolf materialize, knit itself together molecule by molecule, in front of me.

Now there are two.

_Good_, says Jacob. _It is coming back to you_.

_I still do not think she is the Princess Izzy_, says Leah.

"I go by Bella now," I say.

_Imposter_, she hisses.

Jacob growls at Leah. _I believe her. She has drowned in the source. She will remember in time_.

Jacob focuses his eyes on me. _Come_.

"Where?"

_You have much to rebuild_.

"You," he said. Not "We." I'm responsible for whatever ruin has happened here.

_Come_, he says again, with a little more force.

Jacob and Leah watch me as I slowly get to my feet. My lungs still burn from the water of the stream, _the source_, as Jacob called it. We walk along the riverbank, Jacob to my right and Leah to my left. The third one, the invisible, follows behind.

The water rushes by us, a murmuring witness, and we walk a long time in silence.

_In this last of meeting places  
We grope together  
And avoid speech.  
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river_

_Sightless, unless  
The eyes reappear  
As the perpetual star  
Multifoliate rose  
Of death's twilight kingdom  
The hope only  
Of empty men._*

* * *

*T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

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A/N: OMG IT WAS KEYSER SÖZE! **

**Questions? Comments? Please let me know. I love your theories and your vomit. I'll take it all.**


	8. Seven: She Discovers the Bridge

**A/N: Here we are again. I think this chapter will begin the transition to, you know, stuff making more sense. I hope. Thanks for sticking with it.**

**Love to the Gorgeous Ladies of Ravelry (GLoR). And thanks to algonquinrt for pimping on her blog. I still am waiting for this alleged cracker story, by the way. I have already apologized repeatedly for the Philip Glass.  
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**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer has twenty-five bucks and a cracker. I have these jeans of his with her name still on it. Shit, now I have to put in a Tori Amos disclaimer too. DISCLAIMER FAIL.  
**

**Helga's is a nod toward Helga's Diner, which appears in Megan McCafferty's **_**Sloppy Firsts**_**, a**** series which I shamelessly pimp out even though I receive no sort of commission for book sales.**

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Seven: She Discovers the Bridge**

I've been walking with the wolves—_my_ wolves—for a long time. I see the sun beginning to rise. It's amazing that I do not need to sleep in this world. I guess that makes some sense, though, because if I dreamed here, where would I go? Nevertheless, it feels wonderful, despite my still-burning lungs, not to feel tired.

I spy something as the river widens. Ropes and rotted wood. It's familiar but in a cellular and inexpressible way, like something coded into my DNA.

"What is that?" I ask, pointing and walking to the water's edge.

_What is it now, or what did it use to be?_ asks Jacob in his annoying way of answering every question with a question.

"Are you allowed to answer both questions?" The irony of answering his question with a question does not escape me.

_I will have to consider._ And he is silent for a long time. I sit down on the damp grass and study my mud-caked feet.

_I do not think I am breaking any rules._ He looks toward the ropes and decaying planks of wood._ This is what remains of the Bridge Between_.

"The bridge between what?"

_No, that is, that was, its name. The Bridge Between_.

"It's not much to look at, is it?"

_If it is not much to look at, that is your fault, my princess_.

I? I did this? Is this part of what I must rebuild?

"How do I fix this?" I ask, crawling on my hands and knees to get a better look at the fraying ropes. I wonder if Jacob will push me into the water again.

_You must remember your nature_, says Jacob, and I see Leah shake her head in a most human way, as if she knows it's already a lost cause.

_Why are we bothering with her?_ she asks, glaring at me.

Jacob snaps his jaw dangerously close to her face. _Have you forgotten too? You live, you breathe, only because of the princess._

"What about you?" I ask the silent, invisible presence behind me.

_Me? You care what I think? You do not even remember my name._

"I'm sorry. I wish I could. I … I know I'll remember. Why can't you just tell me?"

_We are beholden to the rules. We follow you because you made us, but we may not remind you of who we are_.

"I'll remember you," I address the empty space. "I don't know when, but I'll try. I will. I promise." He sounds hurt that he's the only one I still cannot see.

_That is not a promise you know you can keep_, the invisible voice says, and I know he's right.

"Are there more of you?" I ask suddenly.

_There used to be_, Jacob says, and his voice is tinged with sorrow and regret. And maybe, even, a little bitterness.

"What happened?"

_You left us._

I still don't understand, but I am beginning to believe he tells the truth. I can't think of anything to say except, "I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

_Thank you_.

Leah crosses in front of me. _Just because she is sorry does not change what she did_. She looks at me with such hatred. I almost wish she were still invisible. I can't stand the way she looks at me—her eyes bore into my heart, and I feel the weight of the world, this world I've somehow managed to destroy.

"How can I make things right again?"

_You cannot restore our fallen_, says Leah, looking away from me, looking far in the distance.

Jacob growls at Leah, and she walks a bit away from us. He gazes at me. _You can rebuild. You __**must**__ rebuild_. And he indicates the Bridge Between with his head.

So how do I do this? What is my nature? What do I have to remember?

"I'm sorry, I don't know how. Isn't there a way around the rules? What happens if you break the rules?"

Jacob shudders, and he is so large and frightening that I am suddenly more afraid than I've yet been in this world. What is out there scarier than Jacob?

_Let me think a moment_, he says, pacing. His eyes light up, and he says, _Come_. He leads me to a large rock. _Look_.

I gaze at the rock face, and in the morning light I can make out some grooves in the rock too regular to be the work of nature. I crouch down and trace my fingers along the grooves. _Izzy_. That's my handwriting, my childish scrawl.

_If you rebuild the Bridge Between, you will remember_, Jacob says, and I'm not sure if he's broken a rule by telling me this much.

Maybe he hasn't. He hasn't told me how I can possibly rebuild this bridge. Is this something hidden in my memory? I continue to trace my old name in the rock, over and over again until my fingertip is raw. Why can't I remember? I grind my fist into my forehead. Come on, remember—remember _something_, goddammit.

I will myself to remember. I mentally put myself back in the stream, the Source, try to bring back the flood of images that hit me as my lungs filled with water.

I see me, five-year-old me, my eyes closed, my palms to the sky. My eyelids, so pale they are almost violet, are delicate, living veils, smooth and tranquil, my face a mask of calm and concentration. My mouth is open. What am I doing? There is no sound in my memory. Am I singing?

I mimic the pose in my mind, standing with my arms out at my sides, my palms up. I sense Jacob sidle up to me, his body pressed against my leg. I can feel his hope radiating like heat through me. Maybe this is right.

I open my mouth.

And to my surprise, I begin to sing.

* * *

There is gentle knocking at my door. I wake up momentarily confused. _Where am I?_ But here I am lying on top of my childhood bed in my grown up funeral dress. I'm freezing. I've been sleeping lying on my side with my knees curled into my chest. I should have gotten under the covers. My legs are cramped from being curled up so tightly. I have no idea what time it is.

"Bella? Bells? Are you okay?" Charlie must be back from the memorial service.

I'm not sure what my voice will sound like or if he saw me running to my truck in tears, but I'm hoping I sound fairly normal as I say, "Yeah, Dad, everything's fine. I was just napping."

"Want to come downstairs? I brought some donuts on the way home."

"Are they from Helga's?"

"Yeah."

"Be right there." I peel off my ruined tights, still sandy from kneeling in the parking lot, and walk to the wastepaper basket by my desk. I hesitate a moment before I drop them in the trash. Do I want to save these? Do I want to save the pantyhose I wore to Edward Cullen's memorial? I realize I'm being silly, so I let the balled-up pantyhose slide off my fingers and into the can.

They don't make a sound as they fall, and I have to look into the can to make sure I haven't just imagined throwing them away.

I slip out of my black dress, leaving it in a puddle on the floor before changing into a t-shirt and yoga pants from my bag. I begin to turn the doorknob to go meet Charlie in the kitchen, but then I feel a pang of guilt leaving the dress like that. I turn back around and hang the dress up properly in the closet, lightly fingering the closet's permanent occupant, the abandoned semiformal dress, while I have the door open.

"Come on, Bells, the donuts miss you." I can tell Charlie is impatient to get his donut on, and I know he wants to wait until I am there. He has to. This is understood.

This used to be our late-night ritual in high school. I'd be studying in the living room or at the small desk in my bedroom, and Charlie would come home from the station with a box of Helga's donuts.

"Bells?" he'd call from the foyer. "Want a study break?"

And I'd run down to the kitchen, where there would be a twine-tied box on the table. I'd use a knife to break the twine, and after a moment of reverence, thanking the fryers at Helga's for bringing us this bounty, Charlie and I would dig in. Charlie would end up with powdered sugar all over his mustache, and I'd invariably get a big glop of jelly on my lap from biting into my donut too hastily. We'd look at each other and laugh, and I loved the way Charlie's eyes would crinkle at the corners, even if the laugh lines meant that he was growing older. It still did my heart good to see him so happy.

When I go into the kitchen, the box from Helga's is there, as it has been so many times. So many reincarnations of so many donuts, so many late-night study breaks. It feels almost like a religious ceremony as I get the knife from the drawer and walk to the table to cut the twine. I use the serrated edge to saw back and forth, and the twine is split in two, strand by strand, until it finally gives way. I remove the twine and hold it in two hands, idly trying to match up one frayed end to the other, as if it somehow contains the secret of the universe.

"Bells? Jelly?" Charlie is offering me my favorite. I take the donut from his hand and lift it to him in tribute. We clink our donuts together as if we are toasting each other with champagne, and take greedy bites. It's like we are working off a script, because Charlie ends up with powdered sugar all over his mustache, and I'm laughing so hard at him that I don't notice the big blob of jelly ooze out of the end of my donut onto my yoga pants.

Charlie laughs, watching the jelly fall, and I notice new crinkles—a lot of them—by his eyes. I'm not a little girl anymore. I can't bear the thought of losing Charlie. I'd be lost. My donut is good, but not as good as I remember, and I'm suddenly finding this ritual kind of empty, like we are animatronic versions of ourselves in a museum exhibit of the Swan Household, circa 2002. I gulp down my bite of jelly donut, which suddenly feels like sand against the lump in my throat.

"Oh, hey, kid," Charlie says, pausing to get a napkin to wipe some of the powdered sugar off his face, "I keep forgetting to tell you. I, uh, I ran into your mom."

What? The room's gone out of focus.

I put my donut down onto the table, and a bit of jelly oozes out of it onto the unfinished wood.

"How …?" I can't even finish my thought.

"Sunday, traffic stop—taillight out. Her hair's different. Boy, we were both shocked when I walked up to her window. I said you were coming to town. She wants to see you."

"She does?"

"Told her about Longfellow, and she's so proud, Bells."

I feel bile in my throat rise. How dare she? How dare she feel fucking proud? She had nothing to do with my achievements. I suddenly feel like the Little Red Hen.

He pats the pockets of his uniform jacket, which he still has on. "She gave me her number. Said it would be up to you to call."

He finds a slip of paper and leaves it on the table next to my bleeding donut.

I recognize her loopy handwriting from grocery lists that I've saved and from the cards she's sent me through the years. Why now? Charlie and I have always lived in this house. She knew where to find us. And what was she even doing in Forks?

I put my hand on the table over the note and close my hand on it. The paper crumples in my hand like a desiccated leaf. My jaw is clenched.

Charlie continues eating his donut, getting powdered sugar all over his mustache again. I'm not laughing. He sighs. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, Dad," I say, trying to smile but failing. I know this isn't his fault. "I'm glad you told me. I'm glad you left it up to me."

"Are you going to call her?"

"I don't know." I really don't. Part of me wants to set this balled-up piece of paper on fire, see Renee's name and number burn up and disappear into ash. And part of me, well, I'm just curious. I want to know why. Why wasn't I good enough?

"Either way's fine with me, kiddo."

"Yeah, I know."

We sit in silence for a while, and I listen to him chew. Finally he says gently, "Hey, Bells, aren't you going to finish your donut?"

I reach for a napkin and wrap my donut up, putting it back into the box from Helga's. "Maybe later. I'm not so hungry right now."

He looks at me like he wants to say something, but instead he takes another bite of donut and stares out the window.

Our silences are usually comfortable and familiar, but this one feels different. I can't stand it. I ask, "So how was the rest of the memorial? Anything interesting to report?"

Charlie furrows his brow in concentration. "Not really. It took a long time for everyone to clear out. Good thing there wasn't a burial afterwards—traffic would have been real messy for a procession that long. That kid must have been pretty special."

He glances over at me, trying to read my face. I'm sure he is still wondering what it was about this guy that made me get on a plane and come home.

How can I explain it to him? I just shrug my shoulders and say, "He was always nice to me."

He nods, as if this explains everything.

"I'm still kind of tired from the traveling," I say, pushing my chair back from the table. "I think I'll lie down a bit before dinner, if that's okay."

"Of course, Bells. How does pizza sound?"

"Great." I'm too tired to plan a meal anyway, even though I feel a little guilty about not getting more home cooking into Charlie while I'm home.

We like all the same toppings, so I don't have to say anything before I trudge back up the stairs. When I get back to my room, I put the crumpled ball of paper, which has been in my fist this whole time, on my desk. I let it sit there for a moment, contemplating how it can be possible that such a tiny little ball of paper can throw my world upside down. Eventually I smooth it out onto the desk's painted wood surface. The paper is soft now, pliable and quiet.

I wish Charlie had told me why she left. I guess I could ask him one of these days. Maybe I'll ask him while I'm home. It might be important. But I don't want him to relive the pain of when she walked out. I don't know. He seemed so casual about it just now—maybe he's over it. Maybe it was mutual. I'm trying to picture this traffic stop, the two of them talking about me and what I've been up to.

I bet he didn't tell her I dropped out of art school though. He doesn't like quitters.

I remember the panic I felt those last months of school, when I felt like everything I did was being judged, that they were just looking for one more thing that I'd do wrong so they could toss me out. It felt kind of like when you are losing a board of Tetris, as you watch the blocks pile higher and higher, and all you need is that long skinny piece to buy yourself some time, but the skinny piece never comes, and you know you are going to lose; the blocks are going to reach the ceiling. I just bailed before the last brick could fall. It was inevitable, but at least I felt like I had some control.

I briefly wonder if my mother saw her marriage like that, somehow, like a Tetris board about to fill up, and maybe I'm more like her than I want to be. Maybe there's a whole world inside her that I don't know. Maybe I should call her to find out. I stare at the ten digits written on the wrinkled scrap of paper, trying to decide.

Maybe I don't want to find out how alike we really are.

I tell myself I don't have to make up my mind right now. I leave her number on the desk and sit on my bed, feeling paralyzed. Should I call? Should I ignore her? What if this is my only chance to know why? To know her? For her to know me? My mind whirls in crazy circles until I hear the pizza guy ring our doorbell.

I know Charlie won't call me to dinner because he thinks I'm asleep. I come down the stairs as he's bringing the pizza box into the kitchen. I take out two plates, passing one over to him.

"Nice nap?" he asks.

"I was just lying down, but I wasn't sleeping," I say, wrestling with a gooey string of cheese trailing behind the pizza slice I'm trying to get on my plate.

"Anything you want to do while you're in town, Bells?" Charlie asks as we walk to the living room with our plates.

"I'm supposed to call Angela. I ran into her today at the service."

"Angela Weber? Your teacher's kid?" asks Charlie. Charlie's funny, the way he doesn't remember who my friends are—it's not as if I had a parade of them coming through every afternoon. It was pretty much just Angela. The guy can memorize sports stats without even trying, but when it comes to names and faces of real people in his life, he's sort of lost.

"Yeah. She's Angela Cheney now and has two cute kids." I don't bother trying to remind him who Ben is.

"Man," says Charlie, "you kids sure grow up fast."

"Not me," I say, leaning my head against his shoulder. I feel stuck. I feel perpetually thirteen years old, always pushing open the doors to the music room and seeing Edward Cullen for the first time.

"No, Bells, you are. Look at you, living on your own in a big city like Boston! You don't need your old man for anything."

"I'll always need you," I say, giving his hand a squeeze. Charlie's face gets a little red, and he excuses himself to get a beer from the fridge.

I have room only for one slice of pizza, the grief of this day draining me of appetite and energy.

"I'm going to go to bed," I announce and put my dish in the sink. I'll wash it tomorrow. It's not even nine, but I am wiped out. This morning's tears feel very far away now, a distant memory, a shadow of sorrow. I am reminded of Dickinson: _After great pain, a formal feeling comes—/The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs—/The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,/And Yesterday, or Centuries before? _There's a formal, heavy feeling in my heart as I go up the stairs again to ready myself for bed.

"G'night, kid," Charlie calls after me as I disappear into the darkness of the second floor.

* * *

My eyes are closed, and my palms face heavenward as I sing. I'm not even … _trying _ to sing, but music is pouring out of me, music without words, without a familiar melody. I'm just the vessel for this music. I do not think this is my voice. My singing voice is scratchy and thin and full of air, but this voice coming out of me is pure white light.

I can still feel Jacob's body heat against my leg, and soon I feel Leah pressing against me on my other side. I don't know where the other one is.

In my mind, I picture the Bridge Between and try to remember what it used to look like. I don't remember, but I say to the bridge in my mind, _Be whole again. Be what you were. Be what you were meant to be_. I don't stop singing until I can feel rope fibers coming together, time moving backward, moss and mold being stripped away, wood becoming new.

And when I open my eyes, there is a tremendous bridge in front of me, whole and complete. I can't even see the end of it. It disappears into the clouds. _**I **__did this? _I ask myself in wonder.

I look to the wolves to see their reaction. Leah sort of sniffs as if to show she's not too impressed, but Jacob says, _Well done. _

I feel the third one nudge me with his moist nose, and I know he is smiling a wolfy smile.

I step back to look at the restored bridge and am filled with hope.

I have begun to rebuild.

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A/N: It was his sled!**

**Thanks for your reviews—as Maylin pointed out, I have some of the most eloquent, awesome reviewers in all of FF-dom. So keep on bein' awesome! [Buddy-Christ pose]**


	9. Eight: She Travels Between

**A/N: See, the last chapter was just to set things up for the rest of the story, which is why this chapter popped up so quickly. **

**Love to the Double Us at Ravelry!**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer don't need no stinking badges. I need forms filled out in triplicate. **

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Eight: She Travels Between**

I wake up suddenly but without alarm. My eyes just flicker open, and I'm in my bed, wrapped under my blankets and looking at the ceiling. _I rebuilt the Bridge Between_, I think, and I'm surprised at how incredibly clear my dream is. It's not like a murky thing in muddied water that I'm groping around, hoping to find what's hiding beneath the surface. It's a crystal clear memory, as clear as going to Edward Cullen's memorial yesterday.

This is different.

I remember now, the wolves, Jacob and Leah, and the third, whose name I don't remember but whose warm, wet nose I can still feel on my skin. _I was a princess_, I think. _The Citadel was my kingdom_. That part is still hazy, since I remember only through visions from my dreaming, a copy of a copy, the crispness of the memory degraded. Somehow I left the Citadel behind and caused its ruin. They keep telling me I left them. Did I leave willingly? Or was I forced out?

_They're just dreams, Bella_, I tell myself. _Why does it matter?_ But I can't help feeling, deep within me, that it does. That it's terribly important. After all, these dreams were locked away for years, ever since Renee left.

Renee.

I glance toward my desk at the piece of paper I know is there. I can't see it from where I'm lying in bed, but I feel its presence there like a pulsing, living thing. I have to decide. I'm in town only a few more days, and then who knows when I'll be back again, when I'll be able to make the long flight.

I should call her.

I swing my legs out from under the covers and stand up slowly, walking over to the desk and looking at the rumpled bit of paper. I pick up my phone and dial her number, but I hit the cancel button and toss the phone on my bed. No need to make this decision right this minute. If I call her, I might know why she left. If I find out why she left, I might stop blaming myself.

Or, if I find out why she left, my heart just might break.

Little steps first, maybe. Maybe today I will call Angela. I go downstairs to get some cereal. Charlie's long gone. It's raining today, and at least that makes more sense to me, the drops streaking against the kitchen windows. I think that just a few days ago, I was in my apartment three thousand miles away, eating cereal, looking out at the snowy wasteland outside, and thinking Edward Cullen was still alive. How different things are now.

I pick up the old landline in the kitchen and dial Angela's number. An older woman answers the phone. I ask for Angela.

"Oh, she doesn't live here anymore."

I'm confused until I realize I've dialed Angela's parents' house. Stupid autopilot. "Mrs. Weber?"

"Yes?"

"Hey, it's Bella Swan."

"Oh, _hi_, Bella! It's nice to hear your voice. Angela mentioned you were in town."

"Yeah, I dialed your number by accident, sorry."

"Terrible about that Cullen boy, isn't it?"

I watch the last few Cheerios bloat up in the milk. "Yes," I say quietly. Yes, my world has ended now.

"So much promise. Did you know him well?"

"I … I wish—" I cut myself off. "Well enough," I end up saying. "He was a good guy."

"Seems like it," says Angela's mom, sighing. She changes gears. "So, do you need Angela's number?"

"No, I have it. I just am so used to dialing this number from this phone," I giggle nervously. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Oh, Bella, it's no trouble, and it's nice to hear your voice again."

"You too, Mrs. Weber."

And we hang up. I actually don't have Angela's number memorized. I have to go back upstairs to get my phone. I sort of miss the days when I knew everyone's phone number. Sure, it's convenient having people on speed dial or to be able to call them with a tap on your phone, but it's relying too much on technology, outsourcing your memory to cold, unfeeling circuitry. Are we losing our humanity somehow by having our means of reaching out to each other dictated by wires and binary code and fiber optics?

I sit cross-legged on the bed and hit Angela's number. She answers right away.

"Bella! Hey!" Caller ID has changed the way people communicate, I think. There's no surprise anymore in answering a phone call.

"Hey. Hi. So, listen, did you want to get together today? Are you busy?" Angela is a stay-at-home mom these days. She says she'll go back to school when Patrick is in kindergarten.

I can hear clanging and singing and happy shouting in the background. "You know, nothing too exciting around here," she says.

"Forks, you know," I say by way of explanation.

"Yeah, always the same. Do you want to have lunch, maybe?"

"Sure—the diner?" There really aren't that many places to go in Forks.

"Sounds good. I could probably have the kids mopped up and relatively non-grubby in an hour or so. Want to meet around noon?"

"Sure."

We're about to hang up, but I sort of blurt out, "Hey, could you bring that wolf book I made for Patrick?"

Angela sounds distracted but agrees. When we disconnect, the absence of the children's happy playing noises makes me realize how quiet and lonely the house is. _Poor Charlie_, I think. How does he stand it? At least I have the sounds of traffic, loud sidewalk conversations, and, come baseball season, cheering and chipper loudspeaker announcements.

I take a quick shower and walk back to my room wrapped in a towel. I haven't brought too much clothing here, so I don't have a hard decision to make about getting dressed. I'm actually just relieved that I don't have to put on three pairs of pants in order to stay warm. Being in Forks is practically like a vacation in the tropics after February in Boston. Of course, I imagine that tropical vacations usually don't involve hysterical sobbing and awkward silences and fears of losing your dad and being alone in the world. At least, as far as I'm led to believe from the brochures. But then again, I've never been to the tropics, so I could be wrong.

I put on my jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and a hoodie. How nice not to have to put on my puffy parka! It takes me only five minutes to get dressed. Now I have a while to wait and nothing to do. I go to my backpack and take out my sketchpad. I flip through the pages, seeing if anything makes more sense to me now that last night's dream is so sharp and present in my memory.

The ruins of the Citadel. Flip. Jacob looking at me through the trees. Flip. The picture I turn past quickly, of me lashed to the stake like a scarecrow. I flip to the beginning of the sketchpad to see the drawings from before I returned to my dreaming.

There are wolves on almost every page, packs of wolves. I don't know their names. I think I can spot Jacob, though—he is the biggest. He seems to be the leader. There's a drawing of a younger version of me, a child in an antiquated costume, with a bow in my hand and wolves around me. Three wolves, Jacob, Leah, and … and the other. I _will_ remember his name. I will. I promised him. I remember clearly that I promised him.

And, oh.

Here's something new, something I don't remember. I'm standing on the tower, little child me, Princess Izzy, maybe, with the bow in my hand. Something is in the distance, but even from the distance, this thing is huge. Monstrous. I am filled with terror just looking at this shadow, but I look at Princess Izzy on the page, and her face is determined and not afraid.

_She's braver than I am_, I think, and I am a little bit ashamed.

I dig out a pencil from my backpack, turn to a clean page, and sketch. As always, I'm barely looking at the paper, just letting my hand go where it wants, and when I look down, I see the Source, the raging river, the Bridge Between halfway rebuilt, and there I am with my eyes closed, my palms up, my mouth open. The wolves are at my sides, and behind me I've sketched just a feathery outline. In the margin I've done a detail of just a wet, warm nose. I'm drawing more the _feeling_ of it on my leg than I am drawing the actual thing, since I didn't see it. _Who are you, mystery guy?_ I think.

The ropes of the bridge are flying through the air like something alive. I didn't see this happen, but I saw it in my mind. What else did the wolves say to me? I called them into being. Maybe I did something like this for them too. Lines of poetry fill my head again: _And voices are/In the wind's singing/More distant and more solemn/Than a fading star_.* No, but that's not quite right either. There was solemnity, but this was creation, not decay.

Maybe my book will have some answers.

I glance at the old clock radio by my bed. It's almost time to meet Angela. My hands are covered in graphite, so I go wash them off in the tiny bathroom, so much smaller now that I am grown.

I walk out to the truck and run my hand along the front bumper. "Hi, Edward," I say with my finger resting in the dent. His sticker is under there. He touched that sticker. The apple he ate that day and even his body now are both gone, but that little bit of plastic and adhesive is under there. Funny how that little sticker might outlive us all. Maybe in thousands of years, archeologists will dig up this old truck, and these stickers will still be there, undamaged, and they'll wonder what the significance was of covering an entire bumper in tiny stickers. _A religious ceremony, perhaps? A sign of status or vanity? A charm to ward off evil?_ But they'll never guess that once there was a boy named Edward Cullen and a girl named Bella Swan who loved him with her life and breath. They'll never guess that it's the only thing that Edward Cullen gave to her, the only tangible object. It may as well have been his heart.

It's my whole world, and when we are all gone, no one will remember what it all means. I am the only keeper of the secret.

I barely pay attention to the road as I drive to the Forks Diner. I've driven this path many times. We even came here for homecoming one year instead of taking the extra time to get to a real restaurant in Port Angeles. I can feel my face crumple a little at the memory, a delayed reaction, perhaps, of having to wear a mask of indifference that night.

Angela is already here, which is rather impressive given that she had to haul two small, squirming children with her. She's settled in a booth, Patrick in a high chair, Carla in a booster on top of the greasy vinyl bench. She gets up as soon as I walk in and gives me a hug, and we sit down.

The kids are already eating goldfish crackers and string cheese. "Hi, BellyBelly," says Carla with the string cheese clutched in her fist. I'm impressed she remembers me.

"Hi, CarlaCarla," I say back with a little wave.

"Just Carla," she says, pouting.

"Sorry, Carla." I don't think I'm good with kids. I tend to piss them off in my attempts to banter with them. I glance at the menu. It's new, the laminated pages still sharp in the corners. Of course they wouldn't have the same menus from high school. Why should the menus freeze in time for me? There are other little changes, new lighting fixtures, reupholstered booths. Sometimes I wish everything would stay the same. Home things, at least. This place is no longer familiar.

I order chicken fingers and a side of fries, and Angela smiles. "Ah, the Bella special," she murmurs. She orders a salad for herself and grilled cheese for the kids.

"So." Angela looks at me over her glasses, reminding me a lot of Mrs. Weber. "Why did you come here? I mean, after all this time?"

I fiddle with the napkin dispenser on the table. "I don't know," I say honestly. "I just sort of ended up booking the ticket. And here I am."

"There were a lot of our classmates at the memorial," she says. "The usual suspects. Did you see them?"

_No, I was a little too busy crying my eyes out and feeling like I would die of grief_. "Where were they sitting?"

"Oh, around," she says with a vague wave of her hand.

I hope she won't mention how much I was crying. I'm embarrassed about it now. Not embarrassed that I cried that much or that hard—Edward Cullen deserves to be mourned like that—but because it was in such a public place.

"Did you go to the reception thing afterwards?" she asks instead.

"No, I was suddenly really tired."

"Hmm," she says, stirring her straw in her iced tea. "Oh hey," she says, reaching into her diaper bag, "here's that book you made. The kids just love it."

She slides the book over to me. I can barely remember what I put into this book, only that I made it.

I didn't give the book a title. _Untitled Wolf Story #1, by Isabella Swan, watercolor and India ink on paper_.

I turn the pages slowly, looking for some hint. These are watered-down versions of my sketches, less feral, less frightening. Izzy is cartoonish with big anime eyes. She stands on the tower with her bow. "I will protect you!" she says to the wolves, who pile around her when she sleeps and bring her hot chocolate when she wakes up hungry in the night. This … does not seem accurate. I don't think I will find the answers here.

I keep turning the pages. "Oh no, Princess Izzy, the Stone One has returned!" says this cartoon version of Jacob, who wears a permanent grin even when he is supposedly terrified.

"Let him come. I am not afraid," says Izzy, and I've drawn sort of a stubborn jutting of her jaw.

Carla's watching me as I turn the pages. "I no yike da page wid da stone ding," she says with solemn eyes.

"Sorry," I say. Man, I scare kids. I suck.

I turn the page. Even in Disneyfied cartoon form, this is pretty scary, a giant Golem-thing, a stone beast as tall as the tower. Taller.

I've drawn his dialogue in shaky scrawl, and I can even hear a voice in my memory that is unsettlingly not human, a voice like stone against grindstone, of a stone rolled in front of a grave. "_I have come to devour your city_." Jesus fuck, what was I thinking, giving this to kids?

Izzy stands on the tower with her bow. "I am not afraid! You are just stone! You cannot harm us!" She's looking the Stone One in the eye.

"_Goodbye then, Princess Izzy_," he says, giving up without a fight and slouching toward … wherever he came from. Beyond the mountains.

The wolves all cheer and run around her, and then it's time for a party and ice cream, and all the wolves wear pointy party hats and sit at a grand banquet table, paws on the damask tablecloth. The end.

Perhaps Angela is lying through her teeth when she tells me the kids love this book. Maybe it's because they know it was written just for them. Still, I'm glad I got to see it. I'm beginning to put it together. Maybe now I know what happened to the other wolves, to the Citadel. Maybe.

"Thanks," I say, handing the book back over to Angela. Our food is here, and the next few moments are spent making sure the kids have their sandwiches cut up into handy strips, that lids are tightly screwed onto their sippy cups. My chicken fingers are too hot from the fryer for me to eat right away, so I watch Angela pick at her salad.

"Do you remember homecoming?" I ask. I want to know.

"What?" She's got a dollop of dressing on her lip, and she grabs the napkin off her lap to dab it away.

"Sophomore year, you know. When we came here, to the diner?"

"I … you know, I get a lot of those dances mixed up," she says. "And anyway, you know, I get mom brain now—can't remember all that stuff from so long ago."

But I remember.

It was our first semiformal dance, and the whole school was abuzz. We were all so awkward and gangly. Of course I hoped Edward Cullen would ask me, but I knew that was like wishing I could sprout wings or become a mermaid or something. Fantasy world. I didn't expect him to ask me.

But I also I didn't expect for Edward Cullen to ask Angela to the dance either.

They'd known each other for ages, again, that same cotillion class. Why wasn't I in cotillion class? I'd probably die of embarrassment there anyway, but maybe learning how to become polite members of society would have thrown us together. We would have been forced to converse. Maybe we could have hated the instructors together, had inside jokes.

I remember sitting at lunch with Angela, and she had a funny look on her face. "What is it?" I'd asked.

"I … I just got asked to homecoming."

"Hey, that's great!" I said. I knew she was sort of shy like me, and I was glad for her that some boy had taken notice. "Who is it?"

Angela sighed. "Edward Cullen—do you know him?"

Inside I was disintegrating, like I'd just taken a swig of carbonic acid. "Yes, I know him."

"I mean, he's nice and all, but he's like my brother." She sighed again.

"He's in liturgical music with me," I lamely added. "He seems cool."

"Yeah, he's all right. I was kind of hoping Ben would ask me."

Ben Cheney, king of the tall and gangly. How could anyone prefer him over Edward Cullen? It was baffling. "So what did you tell him?" I asked, hoping she'd turned him down.

"Well, of course I said yes. I can't leave him hanging." I could see why Edward Cullen would like her. She was so kind and sweet, with those beautiful baby doe eyes.

No one asked me to the dance, but that was no surprise. "I'm going to stay home," I told Charlie when he asked.

"What? No, Bells, you have to go to homecoming! It's your first dance!"

"I don't even like dancing," I said.

"Oh," he said, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

"_What_ did you do?" I knew that gesture well.

"I kind of already bought you a dress," he said sheepishly.

"Oh, Dad," I sighed as he trotted to the hallway closet and pulled out a dress in a dry cleaning bag. It was from Goodwill, as many of my things were, and I knew I would have to go to the dance now.

"I, uh, I took one of your dresses to the store with me, and a nice lady there helped me. She said she was pretty sure it would fit." It was actually quite nice, almost off-the-shoulder black velvet, slim all the way down.

"I can take it back, I guess," Charlie said, a little crestfallen.

"No, I love it. Let me go try it on." So I went to the bathroom and got into the dress. It fit me perfectly. The dress was practically new, probably purchased for one occasion and quickly donated.

"Oh, Bells," Charlie said when I stepped out in the dress, my feet still in thick socks. "You look so grown up."

I tried my best to smile for him. "I love it, Dad, really. So much. You didn't have to do this. I can't wait for the dance now," I lied.

Charlie beamed, and that almost made everything worth it.

I'm sure Edward Cullen wasn't pleased that I tagged along with Angela and him to the dance, but Angela had insisted. "If you're going stag, you are still sticking by me," she'd said. Dr. Cullen picked me up from the house, and I sat shotgun so Edward and Angela could sit together in the back. I stared straight ahead, trying not to get eaten alive by jealousy. Dr. Cullen made polite conversation about school, but I was shy and tongue-tied and gave monosyllabic answers.

Dr. Cullen waited for us in the parking lot of the diner with a book while we had dinner. If you look up "awkward" in the dictionary, there might be a picture of the three of us sitting in a booth at the Forks Diner for sophomore year homecoming dinner. Edward Cullen clearly wanted to be alone with Angela, and Angela clearly was thinking of Ben. And I clearly wished I were someone else, someone lovable.

The dance itself was loud and dark. I did notice that I was the only girl there without flowers. I felt naked and awful in my black velvet, as if everyone else could see the lack of corsage on my body and know that no one had asked me here. If there were other girls who hadn't been asked, they stayed at home or brought pity dates. I should have done that, but the thought of making conversation with someone's brother or cousin or neighbor for an entire evening made me want to hide under my bed.

I danced some of the faster songs with Angela and some other couples. I noticed her craning her neck the whole time, looking for Ben. He was fairly easy to spot since he was so tall. He had brought a small redhead, and I wondered why all the tall guys always dated the tiniest girls. I could see Angela's face fall, and I think I had a pretty good idea of what she was feeling.

During the slow songs, I sat in a folding chair on the side of the auditorium and was glad for the black velvet, hoping it helped me melt into the shadows. Angela claimed her shoes were pinching her, and she went to sit next to me.

"Are you having a good time?" she shouted over the music.

I just shrugged. "I'm having fun watching people, I guess."

"Who _is_ that redhead?" asked Angela.

"Don't know."

Edward Cullen came to us then with glasses of punch. "Thanks," I tried to say, but no sound came out. I probably just looked like I was chewing gum. I drank down the punch and crumpled up the cup, tossing it in the bin a bit away.

"Two points," said Edward kindly.

The DJ announced the last song of the dance—another slow song, Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight." Edward stood up, holding his hand out to Angela. Angela shook her head. "I'm sorry, Eddie, my feet are killing me."

He looked a little disappointed, but he turned to me and asked, "Do you mind?"

Did I mind what? I stared at him dumbly.

"Dance?" he asked. Oh. Oh!

I tried to sound breezy and say, "Sure, why not?" but again, no actual sound came out of my mouth. I took his hand, and we walked out to the dance floor.

I'd never slow danced with a boy before. I put my hands on his shoulders, and he put his around my waist, and we maintained a huge distance between us as we stepped from side to side and in a slow circle. Edward sang along with the words, not looking me in the eye. "I feel wonderful because I see/The love light in your eyes. /And the wonder of it all/Is that you just don't realize how much I love you."

Oh god, how I wished he were really singing those words to me, but I knew him and how he was around music, and I could feel his hand forming the guitar chords to the song on my back through the velvet. He was just appreciating Clapton.

Still, as much as I tried to stay practical about it all, my heart was fluttering like hummingbird wings, a total blur of nonstop motion. My hands were sweaty, and all I could notice was this one coarse hair sticking out of his tweed blazer. I wanted to pick it out of his jacket. And I was angry with myself for spending my time thinking about that coarse hair and not looking up at his beautiful face, not trying to memorize the feel of his hands around me, even if I were only a placeholder for Angela or his guitar.

When the song ended, he just shrugged and said, "Thanks," and headed back to Angela. I was frozen in place, and the lights came up, showing the institutional dreariness of the auditorium that had only in the dark been a convincing illusion of glamour with its crepe paper streamers and helium balloons already sagging.

I called Charlie to take me home because I thought maybe Edward Cullen and Angela wanted to be alone.

I sat on a bench outside the auditorium until Charlie picked me up in his cruiser. "Have a good time, kiddo?"

"I guess so," I said, looking out the window just in time to see Edward Cullen kiss Angela lightly on the lips as they made their way back to Dr. Cullen's car.

"You don't remember the year Edward Cullen asked you to the dance?" I say to Angela, who has been looking at me curiously.

Angela chuckles a little to herself. "Oh, man. I seriously had totally forgotten that. I don't remember much before Ben and I started dating. That was weird."

"Did anything happen between you guys at the dance?" I ask as casually as I can.

"Gosh, Bella, I don't remember that far back."

Edward Cullen kissed her, and she doesn't remember. I can remember the feel of that coarse hair between my fingers, his hands forming chords through secondhand velvet on my back. And she can't remember his kiss.

Patrick starts shrieking and banging his sippy cup on the table, and Angela waves down the waitress for our tab. "Let me get this, Bella," she says. "You're never here. I want to treat you."

I carry Carla to Angela's car so she doesn't have to walk. She buckles her kids into their car seats and then leans on the open driver's side door. "It was good to see you, Bella."

"Yeah. I miss you."

"You too."

We stand there awkwardly for a while, wondering what else there is to say.

"Well, see you when I see you, I guess," I offer, going in for a hug. My eyes are welling up with tears, because I honestly don't know when I'll see her again. She was my childhood, my years when I saw Edward Cullen every day. Will I remember less if I don't see her face?

"Oh, you'll be back before you know it," Angela says, squeezing me and rubbing my back, but we both know that's not true.

I cross my arms against a sudden breeze and watch Angela drive away. When she's out of sight, I get back in the truck and drive home.

I head straight for bed. This three-hour time difference is killing me. Or maybe it's just all these memories about Edward Cullen. I have no energy. I just want to sleep all the time. I get under the covers, close my eyes, and sing quietly to myself, "Oh my darling, you were wonderful tonight."

* * *

I'm gazing at the Bridge Between, and I am full of pride. I made this. I also feel a heavy burden inside. "Oh my darling, you were wonderful tonight," I sing.

Oh.

Oh, now I see. I remember going to bed. I remember the diner. I remember that Edward Cullen is dead. I remember all of my waking life, and I know I am dreaming. It's as clear as my dream was in my waking. I can carry my thoughts back and forth from one world to the other. Maybe this is what Jacob meant, that if I rebuilt the Bridge Between, I'd begin to remember.

"Jacob," I say, "tell me about the Stone One."

He stiffens, his hackles raised, and I hear Leah whine a little.

_It is time_, he says, and I shiver.

* * *

*T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

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A/N: The chick is actually a dude!**

**Okay, now we can get to the good shit. Thanks for reading and reviewing.**


	10. Nine:She Leaves a Piece of Herself w Him

**A/N: I'm up way too late, and I'm donating blood tomorrow, and I don't know why I am sharing this information with you. Here is the chapter.**

**Love to Ravelry, and kisses to philadelphic for starting a thread for this story over on Twilighted—link in my profile. (And read her supercool story, "La canzone della Bella Cigna," in my favorites.) Apologies to algonquinrt for scaring her and making her hide in her hoodie.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is the form; I am but the shadow on the cave wall.**

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Nine: She Leaves a Piece of Herself with Him**

"What is it time for, exactly?" I ask Jacob, who has begun to stride away from me.

_It is time to return to the damage_, he says.

"Where are we going now?"

_Back to the ruins_.

"To the Citadel?"

_Yes. Good, you remember the name_. Jacob continues to lead the way, and Leah trots right behind him. I hurry to keep up. The third wolf, the invisible one, stays close by my side. I can feel him, still remember the feel of his damp nose against my leg. Even though I cannot see him, I feel this immense love for him and am sorry I don't remember his name.

I walk a ways with the invisible wolf next to me. "Hi," I say.

_Are you talking to me? _he asks with surprise.

"Yes."

_Why do you bother? You don't even know who I am_.

"I do and I don't. I don't remember your name, but I remember loving you." And I do. I remember his face in the drawings I examined in my room before I went to meet Angela. I remember the wolf, perpetually grinning, not just in the watered-down illustrations for the children's book, but in the darker sketchpad drawings as well. This one was always smiling, lean with limbs too big for his body, as if he hadn't yet grown into them. The wolf is almost an adult but still somehow a child. I feel such tenderness toward him, almost as if I were his own mother. Did I create him the way I repaired the Bridge Between? If so, maybe I am his mother, in a way. I reach down and stroke his fur.

I feel slightly foolish petting the empty space by me, but I can feel his warmth, his coarse hair. He leans into me as we walk. I hope he can sense in my touch how sorry I am that I can't remember his name. I pat around to find his head and try to scratch behind his ears. His tail thumps against my leg.

_I have missed you_, he says, and I feel forgiven.

"I'll remember you soon," I whisper to him, and I feel him lick my palm. His breath is hot in my hand, and I scratch him under his invisible chin. I wish I could see him. I wish I could just remember his name. Why am I so blocked?

_We are here_, says Jacob, and we're at the hilltop where this all started. I suppose it's a good rule always to return to the beginning, to the source. Maybe the answers are here.

"Can I rebuild this place too?" I wonder aloud.

_You can try_, he says, looking worriedly into the distance. Is he searching for the Stone One? I realize that Jacob never answered my question.

"Tell me about the Stone One," I ask again.

_I am not sure what you want to know_. It's hard to tell if he's evading the question because he is afraid, or if it's just his standard, infuriating evasiveness.

"Did he destroy this place?"

_Yes_.

"Did he harm the others of your kind?"

_Yes_.

I steel myself and in a lowered voice ask the question I've been dreading. "Is it because I left that the Stone One did these things?"

Jacob hesitates. _Things aren't always that simple, princess. _

"But I had a part in it."

_Yes_.

"I used to protect this place, didn't I?" I think of the illustration in Patrick's book of brave little Izzy facing off the monster.

_You were the princess and the guardian and the creator_.

"Am I those things now?"

_Only you can answer that_.

"I don't understand."

_You are always given a choice. You may take it, or you may not. Your path is always changing. That is why you were able to leave. We could not hold you if you no longer wanted to stay_.

Is that a clue? I didn't want to stay? "So why am I back, then?"

_Only you can answer that_, he says again.

"I … I wish to rebuild the Citadel," I say, but I am afraid. I am afraid that my actions will somehow draw the Stone One to us.

_We serve you; you are ours_, say all three wolves simultaneously, their three voices together somehow amplifying in my head, the sum greater than its parts. It's so loud I can feel it vibrate through my bones. It sends a tremor down my spine, and I know somehow that it's my cue to begin. I stand at the center of cracked marble on what remains of the courtyard. With my palms up, my eyes closed, I take a deep breath. I brush my bare feet along the stone, appreciating the cool roughness against my soles.

I don't know if it will work twice.

But I open my mouth, and the Voice pours out of me again, sunlight and honey and steel all at once, and I will the Citadel to re-form, brick by brick, the alabaster tower once again reaching toward the sky. _Be what you were meant to be_, I think, coaxing it back into existence. _Be your best self, your most perfect self_, I humbly ask of the dust and rubble that used to be the Citadel.

I can feel time turning backwards again, moss peeling away, vines disappearing back into the soil, sand fusing back into rock, rock into brick, brick into wall. I should be exhausted from the concentration—I'm raising an entire building, after all—but instead I feel alive, as if every cell in my body is singing with me. In the back of my mind, I think, _This is what I was always meant to do. I am a creator. I love this place. I will make it whole again._

And when I open my eyes, I am not surprised to see the Citadel restored, reflecting the sunlight so brightly that I can hardly bear to look at it.

My joy is dampened as Jacob sniffs the air with alarm. _He is near_.

* * *

"I did it," I think, waking up from my nap, my arms at my sides, palm up as they were in my dream. I have summoned the Voice twice. Is it always in my control? Is it me—_my_ voice? Or am I just a channel for something deeper? I can fix this world, I think. I can make things right again, make it right for those wolves. Why should I care so much about them? They aren't real. And yet, I feel such a connection, such concern for their wellbeing. I rush to find my sketchpad and draw what I can remember.

I'm drawing a castle, but it's not like anything I've seen in storybooks—part European with arches and flying buttresses and towers, and part … Eastern, I guess, with minarets and strange, twisted spires. I'm standing in the middle of the restored courtyard, Jacob looking into the distance. Who is near? The Stone One? Someone else? I realize I know no more about the Stone One than I did before I went to sleep. What if I've left them in danger? Should I hurry back into the dreaming?

I realize that I sound like a crazy person. _They're just dreams_. The wolves will be all right, waiting for me the next time I fall asleep.

I get out of bed and jump up and down a few times to get the blood moving. I am so tired. I have been so tired ever since I've gotten here. I know staying up all night before flying cross-country had something to do with it, but it can't explain this weariness in my bones. This is more than traveler's fatigue, more than jetlag. More, even, than mourning Edward Cullen.

Being in my tiny childhood home has enveloped me in a shroud of my childhood. I've missed Charlie, sure. And it's good to be back, to see him. But this house, this house is also where my world fell apart, where I had to learn to make do with just one loving but taciturn parent. Of course I wouldn't trade Charlie for anything else in the whole wide world. If I had to choose which parent stayed, maybe as a child I would have said Renee, but I now pick Charlie. _I pick you, Charlie, now and forever_.

I think again of his new laugh lines, the silver hair shooting up like weeds on his head of raven-black hair. He's aged a lot since the last time he flew out to visit me. I think of a world without Charlie, and I am terrified. _Don't be foolish_, I chide myself. _Charlie isn't going anywhere_. Even if it's a lie, I tell myself that he'll be with me for a long time. He'll be with me as long as I need him. Which is always.

My eye is drawn again to my desk, to that little scrap of crumpled paper. The paper is practically a live thing, sweeping across my brain like a searchlight with its repeated _Look at me, look at me, look at me, look at me_. I know I'll get no rest until I make a decision about Renee.

I will call her after dinner.

But not now. I can't think of it now. I can prepare myself. Can she really have wanted to talk to me, or was she trying to smooth-talk her way out of a ticket? Then again, she's sent all those cards over the years. Charlie forwards the cards to me in Boston in a big manila envelope along with the rest of my mail, since of course Renee doesn't have my current mailing address. I rather dread the mail around my birthday. I know that if I see her loopy script on a brightly colored envelope, I'll think, _She loves you enough to remember your birthday, but not enough to try to find you or to know anything else about your life_. And I worry every year that this will be the year that she forgets to send a card, the year that I am finally and completely erased from her memory or crossed off her list of obligations. I don't know which I fear more.

I can ask her these questions myself if I call the number on that hateful scrap of paper. But do I really want to know the answers? Am I ready to hear the truth?

I go downstairs to see if there is anything to eat. The cupboards are fairly bare, as is the refrigerator, aside from the blocks of cheese. I'll make a quick trip to the grocery store, maybe make a meatloaf. Charlie likes meatloaf. I check the cabinet for spices. Oh, Charlie. Salt, pepper, garlic salt. He's such a stereotypical bachelor. I'll have to restock the kitchen.

In five minutes I'm out the door and back in the truck. I try not to look at the bumper as I pass by, but my eye is pulled to the dent. I choke back the lump in my throat and drive to the grocery store, a bit past Forks Country Day. I wander up and down the aisles, struggling with my cart. I always somehow choose a cart with a bum wheel. Is it a special gift, or are all the carts in this sleepy town somehow defective? In any case, today is no exception. It takes far more effort than it should to navigate the cart around the store without clipping other shoppers in the leg or knocking over entire displays.

Despite my cautiousness, I run over the foot of a guy restocking the dairy case. I can tell he is biting his tongue, trying his hardest not to swear a blue streak at me. "Sorry, sorry," I mumble, my face on fire. He just shakes his head, angrily dismissing me before turning back to his stacks of yogurt quarts. I feel about six inches tall. It's hard to believe that an hour or so ago, I was recreating a world. Here I am clumsy and all wrong.

When I get to the meat aisle, shivering slightly from the chill despite my zipped-up hoodie, I close my eyes on a whim and lift my hands, palms up, by my sides. I open my mouth just to see what might happen. Nothing, of course. I'm just ordinary Bella. No princesses here.

I open my eyes and sheepishly put some ground beef and ground pork in the cart, glancing around and hoping no one has seen my weird behavior. I don't know what I was trying to do or what I thought could happen. To be honest, I don't understand much of my behavior lately. I shouldn't even be here in Forks. I should be working my silly temp job in Boston, tramping home on the frozen ground, eating alone in my tiny little apartment near Fenway Park. I should be living the same day again and again, the only difference being the clothes I wear and what time the sun sets.

I manage not to hurt anyone else while I finish shopping. I don't have too many bags of groceries, so I just slide them onto the seat next to me. No need to have them bump around in the back of the truck. It's already dark when I leave the store. As I pass Forks Country Day, I notice a moving truck and spy Dr. and Mrs. Cullen, and Emmett and Alice and Tanya illuminated under the orange streetlamps by the school. What's going on?

I pull in the lot a bit away from them, turn off the ignition, and observe, hoping they don't notice my big red truck. They're holding hands in a circle. Their heads are bowed for a second. Eventually they all reach in together for a big hug for a moment before breaking the circle and parting ways with wet eyes. Mrs. Cullen hugs Alice tightly and kisses the top of her head while Dr. Cullen claps Emmett on the back. Tanya stands a bit away from the family, fiddling with her purse. Edward's parents and Alice go back into one car, and Emmett and Tanya get into another, and they all drive away.

I see some guys heading back to the moving truck with blankets, and I hop out of my truck, the door making a horrid squeaking sound as I open it. "Hey, what are you guys doing?" I ask.

"Just moving a piano," the bigger guy says, in a total meathead "what's it to you?" tone.

Normally that tone of voice would make me shrink and want to disappear, but my curiosity makes me bold. "But, but … the Cullens?" I turn around, looking where their cars have disappeared into the inky night.

"They donated it," the guy says, bored.

_Edward's piano_. Of course he would have had one—he was so devoted to his music. I imagine a piano in the Cullens' house, which I have never seen the inside of. I'd driven by it plenty of times in high school even though it was way out of my way, just to get the thrill of being close to him, to see the outside of the place where he slept and dreamed. As far as I know, he had been on the road a lot the last few years, as his career as a musician was slowly taking flight. It must have been a comfort at the time to have a tangible reminder of their talented son in the house, the piano a cumbersome but welcome stand-in for their traveling son. But now, now the piano must seem to them like a coffin, a reminder of everything they've lost, its cheery, glossy finish incongruous with their grief. I can understand why they'd want to donate it so quickly.

"Shit, I left my coat inside," says the smaller guy, and he jogs back inside.

I know what I'm going to do. I hurry back to the truck, grab one of the bags of groceries, and wait by the door for the smaller guy to come out. I stand there like I'm waiting for someone to pick me up, and when the door is almost closed, I stick my foot in the doorway to keep it from shutting all the way. When the truck pulls away, I sneak into the building like a vandal. I rush down to the arts wing, my hand grazing along the painted cinderblock walls, back to the room where I would wait breathlessly every Wednesday night for Edward Cullen just to look at me. I push open the doors, and the motion-sensor lights switch on.

After my eyes adjust to the blinding florescence, I see it. In the middle of the room is a glossy, black, baby grand piano. This must be it. I sit on the bench and open the lid. I brush my hands over the keyboard and feel almost an electric jolt, as if his essence is still trapped in the hammers and strings and keys. He loved this instrument, I am sure. I'd like to sleep here tonight, to share something intimate near something he loved so much, but I know Charlie would be looking for me. I realize also that it is a totally crazy notion.

But I can do for him what he once did for me. I reach into my grocery bag and pull out an apple, peeling off the sticker. I stick it underneath the piano, somewhere out of the way where it won't be noticed, my secret little mark. I press it into place, rubbing down the edges until the sticker is smooth. "I'll always be here with you, Edward," I say out loud, not caring if I feel a little foolish.

Before leaving, I play the open strings of standard tuning: E, A, D, G, B, E. I know his fingers must have touched these very keys in this very order many times as he tuned his guitar. I close my eyes and let the chord ring, and I can almost imagine that it's just a normal Wednesday evening ten years ago, that Edward is alive, tuning his guitar, not knowing that I'm hanging on his every word and gesture.

Huh, it _is_ Wednesday, I think, the weeks lining up exactly, so if I took a big pin and pierced it through this day, through this moment, if I poked back far enough, I'd find myself back here with Edward Cullen for Wednesday night rehearsal. I'm not sure if this thought is comforting or unsettling. I pick up the sack of groceries and shuffle back outside, taking deep breaths of the cool night air.

Charlie's cruiser is in the driveway when I get back to the house. I run in, hoping he hasn't already taken care of dinner.

"Hey, Dad," I call as I push open the door. "I'm going to make meatloaf—is that cool?"

"Now, Bells, you know you don't need to do anything like that."

"I know, Dad," I say, unpacking the groceries.

The meatloaf is mixed quickly, but it takes so long to bake. "I'm sorry I didn't start earlier," I say to Charlie, who is parked in his usual spot in front of the TV. "You must be starving."

"Late lunch," says Charlie, patting his belly and never taking his eyes off the TV.

I watch Charlie eat his dinner, only picking at my slice of meatloaf. I'm not really hungry. I can't stop thinking about what I've vowed to do after dinner. I am going to call Renee. The thought of talking to her fills me with a cold dread. I'm not even sure I'd remember what her voice sounds like.

I enjoy watching Charlie eat, though; I enjoy feeling like what I've made with my hands is nourishing him, helping to sustain his life. I feel so much guilt about not being here to take care of him. This is the least I can do.

After Charlie's plate is clean and my meatloaf is cold, I clear my throat. "Dad? I … I think I'm going to call Mom now." My mouth gets a little stuck on the word "Mom." I want to call her "Renee." She is not my mom. But I have a feeling that Charlie would still insist I show her respect.

"All right, Bells, if that's what you want to do," he says, reaching over and giving my hand a squeeze. I bite my lip and nod, feeling braver from his touch. I can do this. I can survive this.

I walk up the stairs like a condemned man climbing the gallows. Time to do this. I flip on my lamp and get the piece of paper of my desk, where it's been waiting for me all day. I sit on my bed with my phone in one hand and the piece of paper in the other, my hands clammy and shaking.

It feels almost as if I'm out of my body when I finally get the guts to dial all ten digits of her number and press "send" to connect the call. What am I going to say to her?

The phone rings four, five, six times. _Hi, you've reached Renee Dwyer. You know what to do_. Dwyer? A shrill beep interrupts my confusion over her outgoing message, and I stammer, "H-hi, this is Isabella." I'm tempted to say, "This is Isabella Swan, your daughter," just in case she doesn't remember. But I just leave it at "Isabella," not giving her my nickname. She doesn't deserve my nickname. "Dad said you wanted me to call. So this is, uh, me calling." I leave my cell number with her, and that's that.

_A mother should already know her daughter's cell phone number_, I think bitterly.

I flop back on my pillow and consider my mother's voice on the outgoing message, the waves of the vibrations of her voice captured, a ghost of her presence. Does this electronic representation of her voice match at all the organic one buried deep in my memory? Her voice sounds deeper, scratchier. Maybe she's been smoking. Maybe my memory is faulty. Maybe it's a little of both.

After all the buildup, it is a bit anticlimactic to get Renee's voicemail. I put the phone on the bedside table and crumple up the piece of paper again. I crush it into a tight wad and leave it next to the phone. I should just throw it away, but I let it sit, a blight on my bedside table.

I curl onto my side. The thought of getting ready for bed right now exhausts me. I have no energy to get into my pajamas. Maybe I'll just rest my eyes a moment, take a little nap before I go to bed. I used to do this all the time, fall asleep on the couch downstairs while Charlie watched the Mariners go into extra innings. He'd just cover me with a blanket and let me sleep. He couldn't bear to wake me up, he'd say. After I'd grown too big for him to carry me up the stairs to my bed, he'd leave me down there, turning off the light before heading upstairs. But I told him that it scared me to wake up alone in the dark in a strange place, so he learned to leave the light on. I kept trying to explain to him that sometimes I needed a nap before I could go to bed. He'd look at me like I was nuts but chuckle. "Whatever you say, Bells."

I'll just close my eyes for a moment. Just a short moment. And then I'll have the strength to get ready for bed.

I close my eyes, both eager and fearful of what I may encounter in the newly restored Citadel.

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A/N: He's an imaginary person in the other guy's head!**

**THANK YOU for nominating this story for the Indie Twific Awards! "Sleepers, Awake" has been nominated for:**

*** Best Alternate Universe Human WIP**

*** Best Characterizations (non Edward/Bella) WIP**

*** Best Use of Music as Inspiration WIP**

*** Most Original Story Line WIP**

**I'm overwhelmed. Details at www(dot)theindietwificawards(dot)com.**


	11. Ten: She Doubts Her Free Will

**A/N: Thanks as always for the awesome reviews and crazy theories. If you want to do some discussin', check the Twilighted thread (linked in my profile). I post teasers in there, as well as on Ravelry, but you Ravelry kids knew that already. I love you crazy, horny knitters!**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer wore khakis. Dear god, does anyone even remember that Gap campaign from the mid-90s? Just me then?**

**

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Ten: She Doubts Her Free Will**

"I'm back! I'm here! Is everyone all right?" I ask breathlessly, looking around for my wolves. Jacob and Leah are lazing about in the sunlight in the courtyard. There's a fantastic fountain in the center, the serenely cascading water incongruous with the anxiety churning inside me.

_We are fine_, says Jacob, speaking for the others.

"So, what happens when I wake up? Does time stop? Or do I disappear?"

_You live only in our memory then_, answers Jacob, rolling onto his back to let the sun shine on his belly.

"Are you in danger now?" I ask, looking in the distance in the direction Jacob had looked before I woke up last.

_Why would you ask that?_

"Well, you said, 'He is near.' And you looked worried."

_I am not so afraid now that you are here_, he says.

How can he be so confident, when I am filled with terror?

_Hi_, the third wolf says, nudging me with his nose.

I scrunch up my face, trying to wring his name out of my memory. "Your name. It begins with an S. It's … four letters, I think. _Sean_?"

The invisible one makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a wolfy version of blowing a raspberry.

"Okay, it's not Sean. But I'm close, aren't I?"

_You promised_, Not-Sean says.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm trying."

_Sean's a stupid name_, he huffs.

The wind changes, and Jacob's ears perk up. _I can hear him. You must get ready. Hurry!_

"What? What am I to do? Who's coming?"

_The Stone One comes, he comes_.

Leah is on her feet at once, cowering behind Jacob's large body. _She is not prepared to face him. We are all in danger._

Jacob approaches me. _You must have your weapons_.

"I … I have weapons?" I close my eyes and remember. "The bow, the arrows—where are they now? Must I sing again?"

_That is not necessary. Give me a moment_. And Jacob takes off for the woods beyond the Citadel.

I'm pacing, worried about coming face to face with the monster I can remember only in sketches. I'm terrified of his two-dimensional, monochromatic incarnation—how can I possibly face the real thing? How was it that as a child I could stare him down? _Calm yourself_, I think. _Remember what you are capable of here_. I sit down, cross-legged, on the stone floor with my hands resting palm up on my knees.

I will wait for Jacob to return with my weapons. I will face the monster.

The invisible wolf nudges one of my hands off so he can rest his head on my knee. I stroke his head. "It's going to be okay, Sean—" I clap my free hand over my mouth. "Sorry. I know your name isn't Sean. Something like Sean. I'm sorry. I do love you though, you know."

Not-Sean whimpers a little. I know his feelings are hurt.

Jacob appears, dragging something backwards out of the woods in his mouth. It looks like a mummy. He deposits the corpse-like object at my feet.

_Here. We have kept this for a long time, waiting for your return. Hurry. There is not much time._

The object is covered in damp earth, recently exhumed. I touch the wrapping: more decaying strips of linen, just like the shroud I woke up in. I tear away at the fabric, and inside is a fine longbow nearly as tall as I am. How the hell did I handle this thing when I was five?

As if reading my thoughts, Jacob says, _The bow always adjusts to the size of the guardian and protector_.

"Oh." I continue unwrapping and find the quiver and arrows. "I'm not sure I remember how to use this thing," I say, slinging the quiver onto my back. The arrows are sharp despite their many years of storage. I think back to my other life, of gym class at Forks Country Day, of my many bruises and being picked last for teams. I didn't take it personally; I wouldn't have willingly chosen myself to be on a team either. How can I be a warrior here?

Thinking of bruises reminds me of my suitcase bumping against my leg when I went down the subway stairs in Boston. Out of curiosity, I lift the skirt of my linen dress. My leg is bruised here too. Strange. I'm still not sure what carries over and what doesn't between the dreaming and the waking. Is it because I remembered my bruise that it came with me? Or am I always the same person in dreaming as well as waking?

The trees seem to shiver, but not from wind. The ground is vibrating.

_He comes_, warns Jacob. _Go_. I grab the bow and run through the wooden tower door, up the stone spiral stairs, and emerge at the top of the tower. The wolves wait below, ears laid flat against their heads. From up here they look tiny, like plush toys.

I'm scared. I'm so scared. I'm going to fail them again.

I try to think of Princess Izzy and her anime eyes, bold and unafraid. How was that ever me? My hands are so clammy that I am struggling to hold onto the smooth wood of the longbow. I can feel the Stone One's approach rippling out from the epicenter of his footfalls; the aftershocks of his steps travel right up through the brick of the tower.

_What do I do?_ _I can't fail them again_, I think in a panic. I let my eyes close and try to let my mind go blank, to let my body take over. _I am tranquil. Show me; lead me to my duty_. My arm reaches behind my head for an arrow. When I open my eyes I see I have already placed an arrow on the flaxen string. I am thankful that my muscles are able to hold a separate, secret history independent of my mind.

I hear him before he is visible. _So you have returned after all these years, Abdicator?_ The voice sounds just like the monster's jagged lines of dialogue in Patrick's book, like stone rubbing against stone, like a heavy stone rolled in front of a tomb. I will stand firm. I will not back down.

"I am not afraid," I call out, but my voice quavers.

_I can smell your fear. It is sweet like honey stolen from the hive_, says the Stone One.

I fight my urge to tremble. It seems that when I let my mind go quiet, my body knows what to do, even though my mind has the power to override everything else and make my body freeze up and disobey. _Empty your mind. Trust your body_. Oh, god, I'm afraid.

I hear branches snapping, cracking, whole trees going down, and soon I see the beast emerging from the trees. He has a face almost like a man, but misshapen. If his face were somehow less human, his deformity would be less disturbing, because then he would be wholly other and I would not be able to find any reflection of myself in him. Instead, the traces of humanity in his face completely unsettle me. It brings to mind the Freudian concept of _the uncanny_. He is something that ought to be human but isn't quite. As he draws nearer I see he is taller than the highest tower of the Citadel.

_We are doomed_, I think.

I look down at the wolves, who look up at me anxiously. I must protect them. They are all that are left here with me. They strengthen my resolve. I lift my chin defiantly at the beast, who is now right in front of me.

"You may not destroy anything today, Stone One," I say, in language that seems to flow from deep within my body. My voice does not waver. I hold firm.

_So you have returned, as I felt in my bones. Will you stay this time, then, __**princess**__?_

When he calls me "princess," it sounds mocking and cruel.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

_You won't beg for them to bury you again? _

I have no idea what he is talking about, but I shiver. "No," I say with some uncertainty.

_I can feel your weakness. I will be back. _And with that, he turns and goes away. As I watch him disappear into the woods, my legs finally give way, and I collapse onto the floor. I weep with relief while I wait for the feeling to return to my legs. Once I feel steady on my feet, I make my way down the stairs, running my hand along the smooth stone walls for balance.

When I emerge back into the sunshine of the courtyard, the wolves are waiting.

Jacob, Leah, and the third one nearly knock me over in their exuberance. _Thank you_, says Jacob.

_Yes. You did well_, Leah admits, nodding.

_I knew you would protect us_, says the third one, licking my face.

I hug them each in turn. "Does he come around here often?"

_Not so much in recent years_, says Jacob. _But since you've rebuilt the Citadel, he will be here more often, waiting for you to make a mistake_.

The invisible one asks, _You won't leave us again, will you?_

"I … I don't think I will. No. I want to stay." I don't think I have a choice anyway, despite what Jacob said to me earlier, _You are always given a choice. You may take it, or you may not. _

"What do we do now?" I ask, now that the danger has passed. "What did we normally do after the Stone One retreated?" I think of Patrick's book. I don't think we really wore party hats and had hot chocolate afterward.

_We just enjoyed being alive for another day_, says Jacob.

_That's not true_, says the invisible one. _We had fun too. You used to play hide and seek with us_, he says to me.

"I think I remember that! I'd be frustrated that you could always find me by sniffing me out. I told you that it was cheating to use your nose."

_You were a sore loser_, he laughs.

I playfully grab where I think his head is. "I was _not_, Sean." The wrong name slips out again, and I can tell that it's like I've slid a knife right into his heart. He howls in pain and hurt.

_Not Sean! My name is Seth. Seth!_ he shouts.

I feel stupid. "Of course it's Seth! Of course!" And he materializes before me. I'm so happy to see him that I don't notice for a long time that Jacob and Leah have grown still as statues.

_What have you __**done**__? _Leah shrieks. Is she talking to me or to Seth?

_There is nothing we can do for you now_, says Jacob.

Seth paws at the ground. "It's going to be okay, Seth," I say.

I hear alarm bells in the distance. Seth whimpers.

_He is coming back_, says Jacob. _He knows when the rules have been broken_.

"I'll protect you," I say as Seth cowers behind me.

The alarm bells grow more persistent. I cover my hands over my ears, but the alarms continue to sound until I feel myself getting pulled out of this world.

"No!" I cry out. "No! Not now! I need to stay!"

The alarm bells are unrelenting.

* * *

My phone is ringing. I have no idea what time it is, but my lamp is still on, and I'm still curled on my side on top of the covers. I can hear Charlie snoring down the hall. I glance at the number. It's almost familiar, but a name doesn't come up. Whoever it is isn't in my address book. I'm filled with a sense of dread. I don't like when the phone rings late—the display on my phone says it's just after midnight.

"Seth!" I yell into the phone.

A throaty chuckle answers me. "Expecting your boyfriend, sugar?"

"M-mom?" Can this be Renee? Her voice is so different.

"Isabella, it's me." I bristle at her casual tone and have to bite my tongue not to correct her. I don't like being called Isabella. I haven't been Isabella in a long time. But again, she doesn't deserve to call me Bella. She doesn't get to know me.

"Oh." I have no idea what I want to say to her. I mean, I have so many questions, but I certainly don't have the guts to ask her them right now. I sit up in bed with the phone against my ear, just listening to the static on the other end. I cup my hand over my other ear and hear the sound of the ocean. I remember being so disappointed when I realized that any cupped object over your ear would make you hear the ocean, not just conch shells. I felt cheated, somehow.

"You sound so grown up, shug," she says.

"I guess so." I mean, I'm sure I sound older than when I was _five fucking years old, Renee_. I'm rolling my eyes so hard that I nearly hurt myself.

"So I guess Charlie must've told you about our run in. He hasn't changed a bit." She chuckles again.

"Dad's _constant_ like that," I say through gritted teeth.

If she picked up on my veiled insult, she doesn't let on. "Well, when Charlie mentioned you were in town, I thought I should see my little girl."

"I'm not."

"What?"

"_Your_ little girl." I'm less upset by being called a child than I am by her use of the possessive pronoun.

"Now don't you be a sourpuss, Izzywizzy. You didn't have to call me."

I think of the crushed wad of paper with her number on it, how it pulsed and buzzed like a malfunctioning florescent light, like an angry wasp trapped in a jar, until I decided to call her. I don't feel like I had a choice. Jacob's words come back to me again, _You are always given a choice. You may take it, or you may not. _

"Didn't I?" I ask. "I mean, you walk out with no explanation when I'm just a tiny _child_, and you never even try to see me for nearly twenty fucking years?"

"Language, Isabella."

"What is it, then? Am I grown up or am I not? Am I allowed to use four-letter words or am I just a child? You can't tell me how to behave. You lost that right." I'm sort of shocked at my words, at the viciousness in my tone. I must still be half-asleep, missing my filter.

Renee sighs heavily. "Okay, maybe this was a mistake. I just, you know, when Charlie pulled me over, it sort of felt like a sign. You know? I never stopped thinking about you."

"Gee. I'm so moved. Oh, I guess I'm all better now."

"Come on, don't be like that. I … I made some mistakes, I admit it."

Way to own up and take the blame, Renee.

"I thought maybe we could talk," she tries again in a bright tone. "You're old enough now to know the truth. I mean, I take it that Charlie never told you."

It's like I've been plunged into a cold bath. Never told me what? My mouth hangs open, and I don't say anything.

"You still there?"

"I'm listening," I croak out. Charlie, Charlie, what has he been hiding?

"Charlie never talks to you about me, does he?"

"Not so much, no. You kind of broke his heart, _Mom_."

"Oh please, he knew what he was getting into."

I have no idea where this conversation is going, and now I have far more questions than before Renee fucking Dwyer waltzed back into my life.

"So, listen, _kid_," she says, sounding suddenly icy. "Do you want answers or not? Charlie says you're in town for a few more days. Do you want to meet? Talk it out? Get some answers?"

I may take this choice, or I may not.

No. I don't have a choice. I have to know. I have to know now that she's made me doubt the one solid, the one given, the one _forever_ in my life, Charlie. My dad. My flawed, yet somehow still perfect father.

"Fine. When?" I pick up the little wadded bit of paper off the bedside table and roll it between my thumb and forefinger. I wish I'd just set it on fire like I first wanted to when Charlie gave it to me.

"Are you free tomorrow?"

I have no plans. I don't know why I'm still here. I don't even understand why I came out here in the first place. "Let me check my calendar." I pretend to fumble with a datebook, but I'm just turning pages of my sketchpad. A grinning wolf draws my eye to the page. _Oh god, Seth! Is Seth all right?_

"I have some time tomorrow," I say, eager now to get off the phone so I can protect Seth.

"You want to meet at the diner? Brunch? Like eleven? That shitty diner's still there, right?" Renee laughs a little. "As if there's anywhere else to go in that godforsaken town," she mutters under her breath.

"Yes, it's there. Yes, that time works. See you then, I guess."

"See ya tomorrow, kid," she says, and I don't know if I can believe her.

"I guess," I say again before hanging up, the little ball of paper still pinched between my fingers.

I creep downstairs, feeling my way in the darkness. I flip the lights on in the kitchen and open the drawer where we keep the matches. I light a match, enjoying the sudden brightness and the smell of phosphorous. I let the flame lick the side of the little ball, setting it down in the sink before it singes my fingers. For a second it doesn't seem to take, but soon enough the little piece of paper is burning, the flame consuming, reducing the paper to ash. "You are dust now, Renee," I say, but I don't feel much better.

The phantom of the flame still dances behind my eyelids as I make my way back upstairs to get ready for bed. I brush my teeth, splash water on my face, and get in my pajamas.

I'm about to get under the covers when I hear Renee's voice in my head again: _I take it Charlie never told you_. It could be nothing. Maybe she's just manipulating. She could just want to take everything from me, make it a clean sweep. Maybe it wasn't enough for her to steal my childhood away. Maybe she wants to take away my foundation too, leave me with nothing.

I go to the hallway and tiptoe to Charlie's door, the room where he and my mom used to share a bed. He's still snoring like a lumberjack, so I know it's safe to push open the door. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I notice that he sleeps right in the middle of the bed, arms splayed wide. I wonder how long it took him to sleep in the whole bed, not stay corralled on "his" side, afraid to stray into the Renee side of the bed. I realize that I don't remember what side of the bed Renee used to sleep on. There's so much I've already lost.

I hate Renee more for making me doubt Charlie. She's already planted the seed. What does he know? What hasn't he told me? I sit on the floor next to the bed with my knees drawn up to my chest. I rest my head on my knees and listen to his even, noisy breathing. I start to nod off and shake myself awake. I mustn't fall asleep here.

"You're perfect, Charlie," I whisper before tiptoeing back out of the room and shutting the door behind me again.

I get under my covers finally, turning off the lamp, plunging my room into darkness. I hope I'm not too late to save him.

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A/N: He never needed that feather after all!**

**This isn't quite where I expected to end this chapter, but it seemed right. So there it is. And sorry no Deadward this chapter.**


	12. Eleven: She Learns the Consequences

**A/N: Okay, FIRST of all, I got enough comments about this that I think I have to clarify. When I apologized for no Deadward in the last chapter, I meant that there was no mention of Edward from her memories anywhere in the chapter. I can neither confirm nor deny rumors that Edward will show up in the present. I just call the Edward in my story "Deadward." **

**Now that we've gotten that out of the way, THANK YOU for reading and commenting and sticking through this crazy-ass story. I am trying to do right by you kids, for reals.**

**Big squishes to the Ravelicious knitting ladies, and a manly chest bump to Mrs. TheKing for pimping me out in her fuckawesome story "Poughkeepsie." If you're not reading that, leave this story immediately, do not pass Go, do not collect $200, and head over there. Read it. She is amazing.**

**Disclaimer: All your base belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

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Eleven: She Learns the Consequences**

I've been tossing and turning for hours. The red lights on my old clock radio glow and taunt me. It's after two in the morning. I don't know what's keeping me up—knowing that I have to meet with Renee in a few hours, or being so worried about Seth that I want to dig my nails all the way through the palms of my hands. One or the other. Or both. _Just go to sleep, already_, I try to tell myself. _You can't help him from here. You can't help him if you stay awake_.

I keep nearly being pulled under, and right at the moment I think, _Aha! I'm falling asleep!_ I'm jerked back into wakefulness. My heart's pounding like crazy as I think about Seth. Poor Seth. This is all my fault. If anything happens to him, it will be on my head. If only I could have remembered his name. What good is it if I can remember every last detail about every encounter I had with Edward Cullen, and I can't remember the name of the sweet wolf I created?

Well, there's the fact that Edward Cullen is a real person and Seth is a figment of my imagination. But still, it feels like some horrible betrayal. I can feel his pain. His pain is my pain. And his fear eats away at me. I know he's afraid. And I know I have to get back to him. So why can't I just … fall the fuck asleep?

I'm so frustrated that I kick the covers off my bed angrily. I get up and feel around in the dark for my backpack and sketchbook. I turn the lamp back on, the light stabbing my eyes and causing actual physical pain. I push the heels of my hands against them to relieve the pressure. When they finally adjust again, I flip through from the beginning, looking for Seth. There he is on almost every page, so sweet and trusting, so full of life. He seems like a baby compared to the other wolves, such an innocent spirit. He was too young to understand the rules, to control his impulses. And I provoked him. I had to call him Sean over and over again.

He just wanted to exist. He just wanted me to know his name, to care enough to remember him.

I think I know how he feels.

No more dawdling. I shut off the light and close the sketchpad, laying it across my chest. The weight of it against me is comforting. I lie on my back and lay my hands, palms up, a bit away from my sides, like a prone version of the position I take in my dreams when I want to create and rebuild. I try to let my mind go quiet. _Help me be where I am needed. Help me get there. Please don't let me be too late_.

I'm not sure if it's the physical proximity of the Seth sketches to my heart, or lying in the position when I invoke the Voice, or the exhaustion of being up so late, but in a few moments I'm sound asleep.

* * *

"Seth? Seth?" I cry out even before I can see anything, when I am slipping between my worlds.

_Good. You are here finally. I was waiting for you_.

No. Oh no. It's the gritty, sepulchral voice of the Stone One. Even before my eyes open, I know I don't have my weapons. I don't feel the weight of the quiver on me.

_You need not worry about being unarmed, Abdicator. I am not here for you. _

We are both on the hilltop outside the Citadel. I am among the wolves. I stand protectively in front of Seth, poor, sweet, darling, innocent Seth.

I think I already know the answer, but I still ask, "Then why have you returned this day, Stone One?"

_The rules have been violated. I have come to claim the transgressor. _

"I can't say I know what you mean," I say, trying to stall him until I can come up with some plan.

_You know the wolf has broken the rules. He may not speak his name if you remember him not._

"But I do! I did remember him!" _Just not in time_, I think guiltily.

_You did not remember his name_.

"You shall not hurt him! He is an innocent." What can destroy a stone monster? How can I fight?

_Princess_, he says in that same mocking tone, _you may have some power here, but these rules hold more power than you. You must step aside and allow me to take the wolf. He is my prize by the law of the land._

"I will fight you. I am not afraid to fight," I say, even though my legs are beginning to shake with terror.

_You may fight me if you wish, but the result will be the same. There is no going around this rule. His life is forfeit. He belongs to me. If you try to stop the natural order, then your other wolves will suffer. Would you have that, princess? Would you allow the others to suffer for the sins of one? Would you have others punished for the sinning that you provoked with your own shortcomings?_

"Then punish me instead of him," I say. "Do what you must to me. I offer myself in his stead." What am I saying? I … I'm not ready to … I don't want to …

The Stone One laughs, and it is a sound like desiccated bones exhumed by shovels piercing and turning the earth in a long-forgotten potter's field. _I'm afraid I cannot take your life for his. The time when you could have helped him has passed. Your faulty memory has condemned him._

I am ashamed, so ashamed, of the relief that floods through me when my offer to sacrifice myself is rejected. I am such a coward.

_If you do not step aside, the others will suffer, and I still will take him in the end_, he says.

What do I do? What _can_ I do? I'm biting my lip in concentration, hoping for some sort of crazy _deus ex machina _to save us, when I feel a warm nose nudge against my hand.

_It's … it's okay. I will go with him. I don't want Jacob or Leah to get hurt. I don't want you hurt. Don't be afraid, princess. _

"No, no, Seth, you can't do this," I begin to cry. I get to my knees and throw my arms around his neck. "This is entirely my fault. I should have remembered your name. It is my failing, my lack. You are perfect and wonderful."

_I think I will be all right_, he says bravely, trying to remove himself from my embrace.

"No!" I scream. "You can't go! You can't go to him!"

_What other choice do I have?_ he asks quietly. _I can't have anyone else hurt because of what I have done. I knew the rules, and now I must live with the consequences of my actions_. He speaks like he's already given up, like the rules are some sort of creepy wolf catechism they've had to memorize since they were pups.

"But it wasn't your fault, sweet one," I sob, dampening his fur with my tears.

_Please don't cry, my princess. It makes it harder for me. I can feel your pain. Just let me go. It will be all right. I will … somehow be all right. I … I am not afraid._

But I know he's just putting on a brave face for me.

_It is time_, says the Stone One.

_And I am ready_, answers Seth. Seth, whose name I will never, ever forget, now that it is too late. Seth, who I will never be able to think of without knowing that I caused his destruction. Seth, who never gave me anything but warmth and nudges and games of hide-and-seek, and paid for his love of me with his life.

He walks with resolution toward the Stone One, who has hunched down in order to claim his prey. As Seth nears, the Stone One opens his monstrous mouth. I watch his gaping maw but force myself to look away as Seth stands before him, ears back, tail down. I hear crushing, grinding. Seth makes not a noise, and I think that I could never be so brave as he is in this moment.

When I can bear to look again, the Stone One is back on his feet, and there is no trace of Seth. But I know that he is gone, because my heart feels empty, scoured raw by his absence.

_He did not suffer_, says the Stone One. _He just ceased to be_. I can't tell if he's trying to comfort me or taunt me.

"Why do you do this?" I yell. "Why can't you leave these innocents alone?"

_It is my duty. It is why I was created. I am acting only according to my nature_.

Before I can argue further, he turns and leaves us. I sink to my knees and sob. Oh my Seth, what have I done to you?

I can't even look Jacob or Leah in the eye. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I mumble over and over, as I watch my tears plop onto the ground.

Jacob is silent, but Leah says quietly, _You promised him. You promised you would remember_.

"I know."

Jacob has walked some distance away from us, and Leah goes to join him. She rests her head on top of his. _And now we are the only ones who remain_, she says. Jacob stays silent.

"What … what happens if I try to rebuild him?"

Their heads snap toward me. _Such things cannot be done. You cannot use your power in that way_, says Jacob, finally breaking his silence.

"But what would happen?"

_It has never been done_.

That's not an answer to my question. I stand in the pose, eyes closed, palms raised, mouth open. Something like the Voice comes out of me, while I think, _Return to me, my sweet Seth. Return. Be again. I name you again, as I named you when you were born. _

I can feel him forming within me, but something is not right. _No!_ I feel him cry out. _Please. Just let me rest. Do not disturb the order for me. Your pain is my pain. Your grief ties me here and pulls me until I will break in two. Let me go. Please. You can help me by letting me go. If you love me, you will release me_.

Well, what can I say to that? I stop singing and open my eyes. Jacob and Leah stare at me with horror.

_That was foolish and selfish. You should have let Seth go. You do not challenge the order._

"It was my fault," I say, scrubbing my face with my hands. "I had to try. I failed him."

There's not even a body to mourn or bury, no gravestone to mark his final resting place. "How do you mourn your dead?" I ask.

_They live in our memory, with honor_, says Jacob.

That's not enough. I close my eyes again and think of Seth, of his sweet, goofy grin, the body he never had a chance to grow into, his trust, his warm eyes, his damp nose, the way his tongue would loll out of his mouth when we'd chase each other when I was a child. I try to crystallize each memory in song, make each a perfect object in my mind, perfect as he was perfect.

_Oh_, I hear Leah gasp.

When I open my eyes, I see a beautiful weeping cherry tree before me. I walk forward and let the blossoms brush against my face in the breeze. "You will be remembered and loved forever," I say, patting the trunk, "my beautiful and perfect Seth." The wind picks up a little, scattering pink petals around us like a sudden, gentle snowshower. I look up, and the petals drift down slowly, kissing my face.

"Now," I say, turning to the others, my eyes glittering with fury. "Tell me how I can kill the monster."

* * *

I feel empty as I sit up in bed. My pillow is damp, and I realize I've been crying. _Oh, my sweet Seth_, I think. Now the memories of my childhood dreams with him come rushing back, flashes of his toothy grin, of dancing, images flickering by more and more rapidly like a Soviet montage film until the images blur into a haze of grief and loss, a kaleidoscope of pain. Getting out of bed, I hear a crash and find my sketchpad on the floor, open to a new drawing which I must have done in the night. A noble weeping cherry tree, Seth's tree.

I failed him.

My hands are blackened with graphite, but it may as well be his blood. He was the dearest one to me; how could I have forgotten his name?

When I go to the bathroom to get ready to meet Renee, I see my face is smudged with graphite as well. I look bruised. I turn on the water and let the bathroom fill with steam, feeling too heavy and numb to undress for my shower. _He's just a made-up thing in my brain_, I try to reason with myself, but I can't stop the tears from coming.

I can hear his words float back to me, _If you love me, you will release me_. I wonder if he also means carrying around my sorrow for him in the waking. Seth would want me to be strong, to live my life as if nothing had happened. _I will honor you, sweet Seth_, I say, finally finding the strength to peel off my pajamas and step into the rapidly cooling water. By the time I rinse the shampoo out of my hair, the water has gone cold. My teeth chatter uncontrollably as I towel dry.

What are you supposed to wear to have brunch with the mother who abandoned you when you were five? Do you try to look pathetic to make her feel bad, to show how emotionally stunted you are because you lacked a strong mother figure? Or do you dress to kill and exude self-confidence to show that you turned out far better because she wasn't around to screw you up? And, perhaps more importantly, do you have any items of clothing in your hastily packed suitcase that could possibly touch either end of this spectrum?

I don't know what to do. I sit on the bed in my towel, my teeth still chattering. I'm staring daggers at my suitcase, even though I know that it's me I'm angry with. I decide to chance it and give Rosalie a call. I can't remember her Thursday schedule.

Two rings. "Hey, Bellacita. How's it going out there?"

"Awful. I suck."

"Ridiculous. You are incapable of sucking."

"I ruin everything."

"What are you talking about?" I realize I can't exactly tell her about how I accidentally got my childhood dreamworld wolf friend killed, so I try to change the subject.

"Rosie, I'm about to go see my mom."

I can hear Rosalie make a strange gurgling sound.

"Rose! Are you all right? Did you swallow your gum?"

She coughs a few times, hard. "Fuck, are you serious? Your mom? How did this happen?"

I tell her about the traffic stop and the scrap of paper and brunch in a few hours. I don't mention the weird last name or her insinuations that Charlie has not been telling me the truth about something. I tell her that I have no idea what to wear.

"Well, Bellatrix, what sort of impression are you trying to make? What do you want her reaction to be?"

"If I knew that, Rosalie, I would already be dressed." I add, "I just wish I knew what she wanted."

"Armor, baby. You need armor. Don't let her in. She is bad mojo. Be like, I don't know, like a fucking armadillo. Or horseshoe crab. Or like a crazy spiky echinoderm."

"And which of my assortment of grungy t-shirts and jeans exudes an echinoderm vibe to you?"

"Fuck if I know. Don't wear anything cute. Be severe. Merciless. Echinoderm power!"

"I have a brown turtleneck."

"Fine." I can almost hear Rosalie's eyes rolling. "Did you bring any of those enormous hippie skirts of yours?"

"I may have."

"There you go. You're going to be great." She's silent for a few moments, to the point where I'm wondering if my crap ass network dropped the call. I'm about to hang up when I hear her say, "Bella?"

"Yeah, Rose?"

"Are you okay?"

Am I okay? I think of the last few days in Forks, of my flight, of the emptiness in my heart since I learned of Edward Cullen's death. And of my impending reunion with Renee. "I don't know," I answer, my voice wobbling a little.

"You can tell me anything, you know." I know Rosalie means it, but somehow I fear if I told her of all the blackness in my head, all the sorrow and regret that I carry in every cell of my body, that she would look at me differently. Maybe she would see me as a burden. She'd distance herself bit by bit until one day I'd run into her and she'd have a last name I wouldn't even recognize. No.

"I know," I say. "Sometimes it's enough for me just to hear your voice. Tell me something distracting."

"I have to head to Torts now, and every time I walk in there and the prof starts talking, I feel disappointed that the class isn't about cake. It's like Charlie Brown and the football, man. I fall for it every time."

I have a good belly laugh over that, and I say, "Thanks, Rose."

"Anytime, dollface."

"I should let you go, I guess."

"Yeah, time for my cake/Torts bait-and-switch. But, Bellasaurus, call me later, okay? Let me know how it went? I'll be thinking of you when I can distract myself from cake rage."

"Okay. Love you."

"You too, Bella-Lugosi."

I feel stronger now, infused with a little of Rosalie's light, the gift she gives me unknowingly. Her energy, her courage, her lack of fear give me the strength to put on my armor and gird myself for battle with Renee. I will not let her destroy me.

When I arrive at the diner exactly at eleven, I scan the parking lot before realizing I have no idea what kind of car Renee drives. I wonder if she'll recognize me. Will I even recognize her? I pull open the door, trying to imagine Rosalie feeling misled in Torts class and wanting cake. It keeps me from running back into the truck and driving home as fast as the old girl will let me.

A waitress holding a pot of coffee asks me if I'm there to eat in or get takeout, and I say, "I'm supposed to meet someone here." She shrugs and continues making the rounds of the diner, going from cup to cup and refilling. She reminds me of a bee in a meadow, alighting on flower after flower.

I scan the room, my heart pounding, looking for someone resembling the hazy image of Renee in my brain. Even the few photographs I have of her are faded, discolored. But no one seated in the diner is alone. She's not here yet. I settle in on the padded bench by the door and wait. Maybe she won't show at all.

I wait there for what seems to be hours but is probably just a few minutes. It's hard to tell. I feel like I'm waiting at the dentist, dreading the shot of Novocain and the smell of singed tooth and the high-pitched whirring of the drill. My ears are tuned to every car door slam outside, and with each my head snaps around to see if Renee is here.

It turns out I needn't have been looking so hard, because as soon as her car pulls in, I can feel it, our severed umbilical connection, my phantom pain. I turn slowly and see Renee taking a final drag on her cigarette before flicking it away and crushing it under her foot. She's older, a lot older, her face way too tan for living in this state, her skin achieving a weird leathery quality. Her hair is bleached and damaged. I can't see her eyes behind her sunglasses. It's not even bright out today.

I glance at the clock on the diner wall. Renee is forty-five minutes late. I am not surprised, but I do feel a bit the fool for having shown up at our agreed-upon time. I'm already on my feet by the time she opens the door.

She looks me up and down, pushing her sunglasses up and into her hair. "Isabella?" Her voice is even raspier in person.

"Hi, Renee." I make a conscious choice that today I will not call her _Mom_.

She doesn't flinch. "So, kid, let's get a table. I'm starving."

We sit in the same booth where Angela and I had lunch yesterday. I remember how Angela, even while talking to me, was always tuned into her children, ready to respond with napkins or goldfish crackers or soothing pats, and then I look across the table and see Renee absentmindedly twirling her damaged hair around a finger while she squints to read the menu.

The waitress comes by for our order, and Renee barrels in without asking me if I'm ready to order. "Coffee, and the lumberjack special. Give me the eggs scrambled." She shoves her menu at the waitress, who hasn't even finished writing.

"What would you like, sweetheart?" the waitress asks me kindly.

I give her a small smile back. "Just pancakes, I guess. And orange juice."

"You got it," she says, taking my menu and walking away.

"Let's look at you," says Renee. I sit still, unsure of what she wants. "Longfellow University, man. Really! So you must be making the big bucks now, some high-powered executive or something. You probably have a corner office and a terrific view."

"I'm a temp," I say.

"Oh."

"I dropped out of art school."

"Art school? What the heck were you going to do with that?"

The waitress is back with Renee's coffee and my juice. "Here you are, hon," she says to me. I wonder if she can sense the totally fucked-up vibe at our table.

"Thank you," I say, smiling again.

Renee rips a packet of Sweet'N Low into her coffee, gives the cup a couple of stirs, and drums her fingers on the table while she waits for the coffee to cool enough for her to drink. Her nails are long and make a hollow, rattling sound. It reminds me of dead leaves in the fall, dragging slowly across asphalt in the wind.

"Why did you leave?" I ask, my voice louder than I intended it to be.

"Cutting right to the chase, I see," she says, chuckling humorlessly.

I shrug. "I'm only in town for a few more days, and this might be my only chance to find out. It's kind of important."

"Do you want the short version or the long version?" I can't believe she is going to tell me.

"I don't have anywhere to be for a while."

"Well then," she says, reaching into her purse for a cigarette and her lighter.

"You can't smoke in here," I say.

"This fucking town," she says with the unlit cigarette still in her mouth. It moves as she talks like a waggling finger.

The waitress comes back with our food. "I'm sorry, you can't smoke—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Renee says, spitting the cigarette out. It lands on her plate. "Fucking bullshit," she mutters, taking the cigarette out of her scrambled eggs.

"Thank you—the pancakes look great," I say to the waitress, trying to balance out Renee's atrocious behavior with stilted politeness. She smiles at me sympathetically before disappearing again into the kitchen.

"So, kid," Renee says, pouring ketchup all over her plate. "You know Charlie and I went to the same high school?"

I nod. "High school sweethearts," I say.

Renee cackles. "Is that what he told you?"

I don't say anything. I don't want to share anything about Charlie with her.

"Charlie mooned after me all through high school, but he was a loser," she says, shoveling eggs and home fries into her mouth. "Phil and I, now we were an item. Homecoming king and queen, prom king and queen, we were it."

"Phil?" Charlie has never mentioned anyone named Phil.

"Phil _Dwyer_," she says, and I notice finally that she has a wedding ring on. "Shit, Charlie really didn't tell you anything, did he? Phil was captain of the baseball team. I was head cheerleader. Charlie was nobody."

My pancakes have soaked up all the syrup I poured onto them, but I am no longer hungry.

"Phil and I were perfect, had our lives planned out: he'd end up a pro player, and I'd follow him on the road. But senior year we got in a fight about something, something stupid. I don't even remember now—isn't that funny?" She looks over at me, but I'm not laughing.

She begins cutting up her sausage links into little pieces. "Anyway, we broke up. We'd do this all the time, have these stupid breakups, fume for a few days, come back, and have hot make-up sex."

I push my plate away from me.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Isabella, don't be such a prude. Your mama got some in high school. A lot of some." She laughs, no doubt reminiscing.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Hey, kid, you asked. You wanted to know why I left. Are you enough of a big girl to handle it?"

"Of course," I say, pulling my plate back toward me and using the side of my fork to cut into the syrup-saturated pancake. I cut a tiny little slice out like a pie chip from Trivial Pursuit.

I'm reminded suddenly of the end-of-year parties we'd have for liturgical music. I'd never know what to wear. It was one of the few opportunities I had for Edward Cullen to see me out of my uniform. Maybe, when I wasn't dressed like all the other girls in school, I'd have a chance to be noticed. But my clothes were outdated, boring. I felt so drab. But still, I'd try.

Charlie would drive me in the cruiser over to the party, hosted by whichever parents had agreed to it that year. I hoped he didn't notice how much effort I'd put into my appearance. I wouldn't want to explain it to him. My hand would tremble as I rang the doorbell, and I'd be dizzy thinking I could be spending the next few hours playing board games and eating chips and dip in the same room with Edward Cullen. I think that moment before I walked into the party was the best, because the evening was full of such possibilities. Anything could happen. If I wore the right clothes, if I had my lipgloss on just so, if I told the right story or smiled the right way, maybe he would notice me. Maybe he would brush his hand across my back as he walked by. Maybe he'd ask me out. Maybe he'd kiss me in a dark corner of a hallway.

Before I walked through the door, a romantic, feel-good comedy waited on the other side, with me as its quirky heroine, Edward Cullen as the matinee idol.

Sometimes I stood on the doorstep longer than necessary, too drunk on the images of what could happen. Because I knew in the back of my head that nothing would change, that the minute I walked through, I would be just ordinary, invisible Bella again. Half the time Edward wouldn't even bother showing up, and I'd feel deflated and foolish for taking so much time to try to pretty myself up. I'd wipe off the lipgloss off on the back of my hand and try to salvage the evening, lose myself in the board games.

But when Edward was there, all I could see was him. I'd blush later, remembering how I'd laughed too hard at anything he'd said, worrying I sounded like a braying donkey. I'd hope he hadn't noticed that I had trailed after him all night as if there had been an invisible tether between us.

He showed up at the party after freshman year, and I was a total spazz in my attempt to act casual. We ended up on the same team for Trivial Pursuit, less fate than being in close proximity when the room had been divvied up into teams. I was mesmerized by his fingers as he cupped the die to roll, as he moved our pie dish around the board. I answered nearly all of the questions correctly, and our team easily won. Edward whistled through his teeth. "You're _smart_," he said admiringly. I smiled so much that my cheeks hurt.

So I'm staring at this little piece of pancake shaped like a Trivial Pursuit pie wedge, hearing his compliment again in my head, a precious stone in my vault of memories. Renee's gritty voice is a harsh contrast as she continues, "So I was mad at him this time, really mad. There was a party that night—a girl's parents were out of town. You know how it gets."

Actually, I don't, but I nod.

"So I get wasted, and I stumble into a room and see Phil making out with some slutty freshman. And I see Charlie sitting in the corner with a beer, and he's watching me with those moony eyes. And I think, I'll show Phil, that bastard."

I can't imagine Charlie at a party like this. I can't imagine him going to a party at a house of someone whose parents are out of town. But then I think, _Well, if he loved Renee, he could have gone hoping she'd be there_. I can understand that.

"I waltzed over to him and sat on his lap. I said, 'Hey, I've seen you watching me. You're crazy about me, right?' And he nods, too drunk to try to lie. And I say, 'Well, come with me, and let's make all your fantasies come true.'"

This can't be real. This can't be how they got together.

"I took him upstairs to an empty bedroom, and we screwed on top of a pile of coats on this bed." Renee chuckles, "I had a zipper in my back the whole time, and Charlie looked like he'd won the fucking lottery."

I'm still staring at the pie wedge of pancake. She is horrifying.

"Well, turns out, we made you that night, in that quick, drunken fuck. When my pee stick turned up positive, I told Phil, who dumped me. He knew it wasn't his."

"How … how do you know it was that night?" How do I know that anything she is telling me is true? I'm also in shock that she referred to me as an _it_.

"I mean, look at you. You look just like him. Anyways, Phil and I always used protection. I was just so mad at him that night that I just wanted to hurt him as much as I could. It was stupid, an accident. It shouldn't have happened."

There's really nothing quite like hearing the woman who gave birth to you describe you as an _it_, stupid, an accident that never should have happened. I think of Angela again here yesterday, making Patrick squeal with delight by chomping up and down his chubby arm.

"I went to Charlie next. I was really just looking for him to give me enough money to get rid of it, but he got down on one knee and proposed, and I was so torn up over Phil that I said yes. I … sometimes I liked the way he looked at me, like I was the center of his world. It wasn't hot like me and Phil, but, you know, it was all right. And you were born, and I thought that life wasn't too bad."

So I didn't imagine the maybe-tenderness from Renee when I was a child. Maybe she did love me, a little, at one time. "So what happened?" I ask, still staring at my tiny, perfect slice of pancake.

"Fate, Isabella. Fate happened. I bumped into Phil, and he was so sorry, said he'd always missed me, and I realized that I missed the fire, the spark. I never had that with Charlie. He was just … predictable adoration. That gets boring, kid. You'll understand some day."

"I'll never be like you," I say. "I'd never leave my baby behind."

"Kid, you were already in kindergarten. You knew how to take care of yourself. I'd already let you ruin my body. It was time for Renee to live for Renee."

She disgusts me. I wish I could tear out all the parts of me that come from her genes.

"I can see you judging me, kid. And you know what? I don't care. I raised you good. I fed you, drove you to school, took you to the doctor. And you're probably more like me than you think. You'd drop everything for the right guy. I can see it in your face."

I can't help but think of Edward Cullen. If I were married with a kid, and Edward Cullen showed up on my doorstep and said he'd always loved me, would I leave everything I knew behind?

I am ashamed to realize that I probably would.

Renee laughs and slaps her hand on the table. "I knew it. I can see it. You've got a Phil too. So don't you judge me."

"But … then why did you send the cards? Why not just make a clean break?" I ask.

"I'm not a monster," she says. "You're still my kid. I always know when your birthday is coming up. I can feel it here." Renee uses her fork to point at her stomach. "So I send a card to let you know your mom remembers you. I do think of you sometimes." _Sometimes_. So generous of her.

"Well, you don't have to bother," I say coolly.

"You've got a Phil too," she says again, jamming a triangle of toast in her mouth. She glances at her watch and reaches into her purse, throwing a couple of bills on the table. "Listen, can you take care of the tab? Phil's expecting me."

"Sure," I say in a flat voice.

She looks me over and chuckles to herself. "You really look just like Charlie. Strong genes, stubborn."

"I'm glad," I say, picking up the bills. It's not nearly enough to cover what she's ordered.

"Well, Isabella, it's been real. You grew up nice. Longfellow University, definitely smarter than either of your parents." She gathers up her things, pulls her sunglasses back down, and stands up.

I stand up to be polite, and she reaches in for an awkward hug. Her touch feels foreign to me, and I shrink back.

"I'm glad you know the truth now," she says, and I sort of want to hit her. "All right, kid. See you around." She gives me a little wave as she goes to the door, immediately lighting a cigarette as soon as she's outside.

I sit back down, and our waitress comes by with the tab. "Are you all right, sweetheart?"

I nod numbly, pulling napkins out of the dispenser to dab at my eyes. No. I'm glad. I'm glad now that I can close the door on Renee. My mother is dead. I had a mother who loved me a little, who loved me enough, and when I turned five, she died. This will be my truth now.

I don't know what Renee wanted. If she wanted me to doubt Charlie, to steal everything from me, she failed. I only love him more than I ever have. He only wanted me to have a mother that I loved. He was just doing his job, the same one he does every day as sheriff. He wanted to protect me.

I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder, and the waitress is back. "Cherry pie," she says, sliding the used plates on the table around to make room. "It's on the house. You look like you need it."

The slice of pie matches my little slice of pancake, and I think that love can come to us through unexpected ways. "You're _smart_," I hear someone say, and I look around, because that's Edward's voice, that's his compliment.

But of course he isn't there.

I take my fork and pierce the slice of pie, and the lattice crust crumbles. The piece loses its form, turning into an amorphous blob of startlingly red filling and broken bits of pastry, reminding me again how easily I can destroy something perfect. I put a forkful of pie in my mouth and close my eyes, letting the tears stream down.

When I use a napkin to mop up my tears, I remember the feel of cherry blossoms on my face.

**

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A/N: Give them a virus! And alien ships are Mac-compatible!**

**Uh, please don't hurt me. I had a LOT, and I mean, a LOT of threats about what might happen to me if anything bad happened to Seth. I'm as broken up about it as you are. The dreaming is SRS BSNS. Imagine that he's in crazy wolfworld Valhalla with a million foxy (uh, make that wolfy) concubines, having the time of his afterlife. Seth is A-OK.**

**Seacrest out.**


	13. Twelve: She Meets Two Sisters

**A/N: Hello again. Hello. This chapter is not as long as the last one. Few things are as long as the last chapter. Thank you for not gutting me over Seth. Seth is getting a lot of wolf tail (no pun intended) in wolfy Valhalla and said to tell all you guys not to worry about him.**

**Love to Rav Unicornia!**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer p0wns. I am n00b.**

**

* * *

Twelve: She Meets Two Sisters**

The waitress gives me another slice of pie to take home before I go, and I leave her a huge tip for being kind to me when I felt like my world was collapsing on itself. Even if my mother—no, I will not call her that ever, ever again—even though _Renee_ is more selfish and cruel than I ever could have imagined, there are still caring, nurturing people out in the world. And I am lucky to find kindness where I may: an apple sticker, a slice of pie, a pair of steady arms when I'm falling down the stairs. I still believe in this world. I won't let her poison me.

I shuffle back to my truck with the little plastic container of pie. I bet Charlie will like it. He's a sucker for sweet baked goods. I should make him a cake before I leave. It's been misting since I've been in the diner, and I slip a little as I scramble up into the cab of the truck, getting a big smear of mud on my skirt. It's as if Renee is trying to sully my physical body in an attempt to make me believe the worst in people. But I hold the container of pie like a shield and slide it onto the seat next to me. I still believe in goodness, in love.

"Let's take you home," I say to the pie, feeling goofy about talking to dessert but wanting to speak to someone or something that doesn't fill me with hatred.

I head back to the house and put the pie in the refrigerator. I try to decide what to do. I am not sure why I made my trip for so long. Maybe I felt guilty about not being home for so long. Maybe deep down I fear that this is the last time I'll make it back here. _If I knew this were my last time in Forks, how would I spend my time? What would I make sure to do or see before I go? _

I don't even know. Forks is home, but there isn't a lot to do. Port Angeles was the big place for us to hang out on the weekends, but I'm not nostalgic for it at all—it's such small potatoes compared to everything Boston has to offer. Do I miss anyone else from school? Not so much. Angela is wonderful, and I love just _being_ with her, but we don't have much to talk about, and my hidden feelings for Edward Cullen weigh on me whenever I am with her, even more so now that he is gone and will forever be a gigantic question mark. And I know I will never speak about it with her. I'm not quite sure why. Maybe knowing that she was his first choice, or maybe being embarrassed to love so much and so deeply a person she barely remembers. Maybe because I feel rather pathetic for harboring such feelings so long after we saw each other on any regular basis.

I text Rosalie once I'm back in my room. "Back from brunch. Renee=Lifetime Channel Movie Event. Can U talk?"

She calls me right back. "Rosie, how's your cake rage?" I ask.

"Abating slowly. I'm eating a Twinkie. That helps. It's like cake methadone."

I have no idea how Rosalie can eat the shit she does. But I love her for it. I love her for appreciating the inherent awesomeness in severely over-processed foodstuffs. She can find something worthwhile in everything, which is why I need her so much in my life. She brings out a side of me that I never knew I had before I met her. When I'm with her, it's like, I get a sense of the person I might have been if Renee hadn't left, fucking everything up. Carefree Bella. Fun Bella. Wisecracking, smartass Bella. I'm not like this around anyone else. I wonder if she brings that out in me, or whether I am just a mirror, reflecting back some of her brightness.

After today's brunch I wonder now what Bella I would have become if Renee _had_ stayed, if she hadn't run into her Phil. Would she have loved me? Would she eventually have grown resentful of everything I'd cost her? If I hadn't been conceived that night, maybe she and Phil would never have broken up, and maybe she would have thought of him every day, hating me more and more. I used to mourn the person I could have been if she'd stayed, but now, now I just don't know. Maybe the only way I could have been another, better Bella was if Renee hadn't been my mother at all.

"So, Bellahooks, tell me everything. Lifetime Event, eh?"

"Ugh. She's horrid. She's rude, and her skin's like old football leather."

"So what did she want?"

"You know, I don't even know. She said that she thought it was some sort of sign that she'd run into Charlie, but she seemed way less interested in me when she found out I wasn't controlling the world yet as a fresh Longfellow alum."

"The keyword here is _yet_," says Rosalie, making me laugh. "I know you've been working on that Freeze Ray."

"_It's not a death ray or an ice beam_," I sing.

"_That's all Johnny Snow_," jumps in Rosalie. God, we're dorks. "But seriously, Bella, what a colossal bitch. I mean, you know my thoughts on the matter. Bad mojo. I mean, I never met the woman, and I use the term _woman_ quite generously, but anyone dumb enough walk away from you isn't worth the black market fee for their stolen kidneys. Not that I still wouldn't harvest them if I ran into her. You know, just out of spite. I wouldn't even try to sell them."

"Thanks," I say, but it's still so hard to shake the feeling that it's my fault. "I mean, I'm glad—uh, not about the kidney harvesting out of spite. I'm glad I saw her, so now I can stop with the _what-ifs_. I'm pretty sure now I'm better off without her. But," and here I think about what she said to me, about having a Phil of my own, "I hate that she is a part of me. I hate that half of everything in me comes from her."

"Oh, hon," Rosalie says. "Biology isn't destiny. I've never seen you be anything but kind. And Charlie's the cat's pajamas. He's so stubborn; I bet his genes are a force to be reckoned with. We should pretend that Charlie just asexually reproduced, like a fucking hammerhead shark. Or, rather, like a _non-fucking_ hammerhead shark."

"Is that shizz true?" I ask. "About hammerhead sharks?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"And also, could you never use the words 'Charlie' and 'fucking' in close proximity ever again?"

"Life is long, Bella, and I cannot in good conscience make such a guarantee."

"You suck," I say, but I'm laughing. I'm grossed out, but I'm laughing.

"Love you too."

"How's Boston?" I ask.

"Cold as fuck. Drab without Bella Swan. You're my space heater, babe."

"I … I don't even know what that means."

Rosalie laughs. "I don't either. I think this Twinkie is messing with my brain."

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Rose," I say, getting a lump in my throat. God, I've been away only a few days, and I miss her _so much_. I think about how much I miss Charlie when I'm in Boston, and I hate how I'm always feeling like I'm missing somebody, my heart torn into pieces, pulled in so many different directions at once. It's impossible to have everyone I love in one location, and I don't know how I can handle feeling this pain in my heart the rest of my life. I feel so Holden Caulfield about it all: _Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody. _[1]

"Are you getting emo on me, BellaJar?"

"Maybe. _And I'm not ashamed_!" I fake-sob. "You're the shit, Rose."

"No, _you are_," she says in her best thick Boston accent. It sounds like, "_No, you ahhh!_" God bless Rose.

"Wicked pissah," I say back. I drop the accent and say, "Thanks. I miss you."

"You too."

"I'll see you in two days," I say, and we hang up. For the moment I am not going to think about flying back, about the terror that awaits me. I'm just going to try to make it through my last days home.

The house is quiet, so quiet. I can't stay here. It's like a tomb. Rosalie's sunlight has already slipped away from my reflective surface, and I'm drowning in the silence and darkness of the fading day.

I run back outside and into the truck. I start to drive. I don't know where. I'm just following my heart. Turn left here, right here, right again.

I'm on Calawah Way in front of the Forks Cemetery. _Follow me_, I think I hear, so I park the truck and get out. It has stopped raining, and the ground is spongy under my boots, which I've shoved my feet into without socks. I close my eyes and just walk where I feel pulled. _This way_, I feel a voice tickling the back of my brain, and I step carefully, my hands in front of me as if I'm It in a game of Blind Man's Bluff.

Like a dowsing rod, I feel a strong pull down, and I know this is where I need to stop. I open my eyes. I'm in front of a gravestone that says CULLEN. I walk around to the back:  
_Emmy Elizabeth Cullen  
August 22, 1997-August 30, 1997  
Our Borrowed Angel _

Surely this can't be the same Cullens as … but I keep reading the gravestone:  
_Edward Anthony Cullen  
June 20, 1984-February 6, 2009  
In diesem Wetter, in diesem Saus, in diesem Braus,  
Sie ruh'n als wie in der Mutter Haus,  
Von keinem Sturm erschrecket,  
Von Gottes Hand bedecket. _[2]

I haven't taken German since sophomore year at Longfellow, but I remember enough to get the gist: "In this weather, they rest as in their mother's house, fear no storm, covered by God's hand." I don't know what _Saus_ or _Braus_ means. I can imagine, though, why they'd be drawn to this inscription, losing their son in a storm, wanting to think he is safe and warm and unafraid wherever he is, even if his body is frozen, lost in the icy waters of Lake Michigan. _Bedecken _makes me think of _Decke_, the German word for _blanket_, and I like the idea of a divine blanket out there to keep Edward warm. _May he be rocked to sleep by your hand_, I think.

I look at the other name again. I didn't know Edward had a sister before Alice, one who died so young. I start to cry again, feeling like no mother should ever have to endure the sort of loss Mrs. Cullen already has. Once would be enough for several lifetimes, but now she has had to endure two. How can this world be so cruel? How can it take away two very wanted children from one woman, and let thrive the unwanted child of another?

My eyes feel hot, and I sink to my knees and put my finger in the grooves of the letters on the tombstone. I trace Edward's name, the way I had always wanted to trace the contours of his face. I know his body isn't here, but it—_he_, I correct myself—will rest here some day. I pray that at the very least they find him. The only thing harder to bear than the grave of your child must be the empty grave of your child.

The wind kicks up, blowing my hair across my face. I'm still kneeling by the gravestone, the damp earth soaking my skirt. It's already caked with mud from the diner parking lot, so what's a little more rainwater and dirt? I'm thinking about doing laundry when I get home when someone or _something_ brushes against my shoulder.

I stifle a scream and slowly turn my head, hoping I've just imagined it. When I look, I see a small, pale hand there. I look up, and I see a young face, haunted eyes, and short, dark, messy hair.

"Alice? Alice Cullen?" I say.

She nods.

I look at my watch. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

She nods again.

I wonder how long she's been here, how long she's been watching me.

She touches Edward's name on the stone, just as I had a few moments prior, and big tears roll down her face. I remember again her open-mouthed, silent laughter as Edward pushed her on the swings. I reach up and wipe a tear away from her cold cheek, and I drape an arm around her shoulders to pull her to me.

"I'm so sorry, Alice." She turns her head toward my shoulder, and her little body is shaking. Soon I feel her hot tears soak through my turtleneck—I must have left my jacket in the house in my need to get away. I wrap my arms around her and rock her a little. Her body stops shaking, so I stop holding her, feeling a little awkward, like maybe I've crossed some sort of line, but she slips her icy little hand into mine and squeezes it. We sit there for a minute in silence, squeezing hands.

For some reason, I say to her, "Alice, you don't know who I am, but I loved your brother. I loved him with my whole heart and my whole soul. I faced my greatest fears so I could come here to say goodbye to him. He was kind to me when he had no reason to be, and I loved him. I still love him. I will probably always love him, until the day I stop breathing."

She pulls away from me, and I feel like an idiot. But then she reaches into her pocket for a small notepad and a little pencil. I hear her scratching away and tearing the paper out. She presses the paper in my hand. I'm about to read it when I hear a voice shout with worry, "Alice? Alice, are you here? I wish you wouldn't run away from me like that!"

It must be Mrs. Cullen. I feel embarrassed. I know I could not possibly explain to her my presence here, so I stand up, give Alice a hug, and run away, hiding behind the thick trunk of a nearby tree.

"Oh, Alice, why did you jump out of the car? You could have broken your neck! I promised you we were going to stop here on the way back from the doctor. Come on, darling—come back to the car. We'll come visit Emmy and Edward after your appointment. We can have a nice long visit then." She tries to sound soothing and chipper, but her voice wavers a little as she says his name. Her cracking voice lights up the fissures in her heart, red and raw, in my mind's eye. I lean my forehead against the rough, fragrant bark of the tree and sob silently for her loss.

I wait until I hear doors slam and their car drive away before I emerge from behind my tree. I walk slowly back up to the road. I'm clutching Alice's message in my hand, but I vow not to look at it until I'm confined within the cab of my truck.

It's not until I shut the door that I realize that I'm soaked and freezing from kneeling on the wet ground. I turn the car on and turn the heat up as high as it will go, trying to warm up a little. I'm still clutching Alice's note. I unfold it slowly and read.

She's written just two words: _I know_.

_I know_? What does it mean? Does she mean she already knew, or she can tell from by presence? Or … or something else entirely? I read the note again before laying it on the seat beside me.

When I get back to the house, Charlie's cruiser is in the driveway. I guess he was working a short shift today. I hope everything is all right. I fold Alice's note back up and tuck it into my hand.

"Dad? Hey, Dad?" I call as I come in.

"Bells! I was just wondering where you were."

I go to him and give him a big hug, soaking wet. "I love you, Dad. I love you so much. Thank you for being my dad."

For once he doesn't cough or try to change the subject. He just hugs me back.

We're quiet for a long time, until finally he says, "Bells, you'll catch your death of cold. Maybe you should get into some dry things."

"You're right, Dad. I'm going to take a shower."

I pull my muddy boots off and run upstairs. I take Alice's note and tape it onto a blank page at the end of my sketchpad before heading to the bathroom and peeling off my wet clothes. As I'm under the hot water, I think, _I'm rinsing off Renee from me; I'm scrubbing her from my genes. I am saying goodbye to her_. I feel clean when I get out, lighter, somehow.

I put on a long-sleeve t-shirt and my pajama pants and go back downstairs. Charlie sits at the kitchen table with the newspaper.

"Hey, Dad, I brought you a slice of pie from the diner," I say, going to the fridge and getting the plastic container out.

"Pie," Charlie says with a smile. Actually it sounds more like "Piiiiiiiiiie." I laugh, and it feels so good to laugh at my dad's elongated vowels of pie love. I kiss the top of his head before going back to get a fork out of the drawer for him.

Charlie digs into the pie, not caring that it's cold. When I offer to nuke it for a few seconds, he waves me away. "Piiiiiiiiiiiiie," he says again. I think now he's just trying to make me laugh.

I watch him enjoying the slice of pie, the unexpected kindness from the waitress, when more lines of Eliot float into my head: _Between the conception _/_ And the creation _/ _Between the emotion _/ _And the response _/ _Falls the Shadow. _[3]

I sit down across the table from him and lean my head on my hands. "So," I say.

"Mmm?" Charlie answers through a mouthful of pie.

"I, uh, had brunch with Renee."

He stiffens and furrows his brow. I don't know if he's upset that I'm using her first name, but I don't care. I will never refer to her as my mother again. He's still got that mouthful of pie, though, so he doesn't say anything.

"She told me everything," I say, and he flinches. I reach my hand out and pat his free hand. "No, it's okay. I don't care. It doesn't matter."

He swallows hard. I get up to get him some water. With my back toward him, I casually say, "So, is it true? What she told me?"

"Well, I don't know what she told you, now, do I?" He avoids my eye as I put the glass of water beside him.

"She told me about Phil, about high school, the party after the fight. And, uh," I stammer with burning cheeks, "a bed covered in coats."

Charlie pushes the plastic container of pie away, and I think, _I really am his daughter_.

"So, is it true?"

"Bells, I … I didn't want …"

"Dad, it's okay. I just need to know. Is that … where I came from?"

Charlie sighs. "I'm sorry, Bells."

"How … how can you not hate her?" I ask.

"Well, now," he says. We have never spoken this honestly about anything, least of all Renee. He drops his voice and doesn't look at me. "I still love her," he says. "I thought I was the luckiest guy in the world that night, and every day she was with me. And she brought you to me, didn't she?"

I kind of gape at him, and he finally meets my eyes.

"I know, you must think I'm crazy. Sometimes _I_ think I'm crazy for still loving her. I knew she never loved me, not like she loved Phil. But every day she was with me was like an unexpected gift. A little over two thousand unexpected gifts."

I do some quick math in my head. He'd counted the days.

"So when she left, I guess I wasn't surprised. I couldn't complain—that would be ungrateful. I always knew, deep down, she wasn't mine."

"Oh, Dad." I want to tell him that he deserves better, that she's _awful_ and mean, but I can't. This is the woman he loves. He still loves her. _Yeah_, I think, _Charlie's constant like that_. "You're too good for this world," I say, squeezing his hand.

"I'm the luckiest guy in the world," he says, "because I have you."

"Likewise," I say. "Go on, finish your pie."

Charlie smiles and says again, "Piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie."

I kind of laugh and cry at the same time, and I realize that there's nowhere that I'd rather be in this moment than sitting here, patting my dad's hand, watching him eat pie.

* * *

[1] J. D. Salinger, _The Catcher in the Rye_ (Little, Brown, and Company, 1951).

[2] Friedrich Rückert, "In diesem Wetter," _Kindertotenlieder_ (1833-34). Rough translation: "In this weather, in this roaring, cruel storm / They rest as they did in their mother's house / From no storm are they frightened / They are covered by the hand of God."

[3] T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men."

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A/N: They called him "Mr. Glass"!**

**Sorry no Wolf World this chapter, but there was waking world stuff that needed attending to. And apologies to Algonquinrt for more German. Sometimes German is necessary. **

**Your reviews are lovely and keep me tapping away on this laptop. I'll be out of town from Friday through Tuesday though, so if I don't get another chapter up before then, it won't be until next week.**

**Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars. **


	14. Thirteen: She Knows

**A/N: Hello, my pretties. This will be the last update until next week for sure, as I'm heading out of town without my laptop (it's just too much to explain to my in-laws). I'm leaving for the airport in half an hour. That's how much I love you guys.**

**Love to all the lovely, horny knitting ladies over at Ravelry. Kisses!**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer's lawyer can totally beat up my lawyer.**

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Thirteen: She Knows**

Charlie and I eat cold meatloaf sandwiches and watch _Blazing Saddles_ on TV, and it's a perfect night. We laugh at all the same parts. I love watching the way Charlie's eyes crinkle when the sheriff says to Gene Wilder, "Let's play chess."

"Work's like that every day for you, right?" I joke, nudging Charlie's arm with my elbow playfully.

"Just like that," he nods, ruffling my hair.

"I miss Madeline Kahn," I say as she sashays on stage in her black lingerie and feather boa.

"Me too, kid," he says, and he seems sad and far away. I wonder if her bleached hair reminds him of Renee somehow, or, more likely, if he sees reminders of her everywhere he looks. I can understand that. I wish I knew how to take away that pain. I wish I could absorb it like a charcoal filter.

And I think of how strange it is, that being called "kid" can feel like a loving shoulder squeeze coming from Charlie but like a curse—not just a swear word, but an actual incantation attempting to undo my existence—coming from Renee. It's the same simple, monosyllabic word. How is that possible?

I start nodding off on the couch as the movie ends, and I force myself to stand up and put the dirty plates in the sink, too tired to deal with them now. _Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow_, I think as I flip the kitchen light off and go upstairs, my legs feeling as heavy as sandbags. I brush my teeth first, knowing that if I go to my room, I'll fall asleep before getting ready for bed. My limbs feel heavy and numb, and I think about the day. Renee, Rosalie, Edward Cullen's gravestone. And Alice. Alice, whose eyes I can still feel boring through me from across the room at the memorial on Tuesday, Alice, who seems to see right through me with those haunted eyes.

After I get into my pajamas, I sit on top of the covers with my knees up, the sketchpad resting against my thighs. I flip through, looking at Seth again. He won't be waiting for me tonight. How can I miss so palpably something that I created in my head? I turn to the end of the sketchpad, to Alice's cryptic note. _I know_. Did she know when she saw me from across the room? Did she mean she didn't doubt the sincerity of my confession?

Next to her note, I sketch us, what we must have looked like from the back, two girls holding hands and grieving at an empty tomb. I flip back to Seth's tree and touch the trunk in the drawing with my fingertip. _I miss you so much already, sweet boy_, I think. I leave the sketchpad with me in the bed, just in case, and turn off my lamp, and prepare for a world without Seth.

* * *

There's a heavy weight in my chest as I wake up in the dreaming, because I can already feel Seth's absence. I'm standing by his tree. "How are you, Seth?" I ask, patting the trunk.

_He can't hear you, you know_, says Leah.

"How do you know for sure?"

_Because he's gone beyond. He feels no pain, but he is also unaware of our petty lives._

"I don't know about that," I say. "And even so, it's important to _me_ to be able to talk to him. Does it matter if he can hear?"

_That is a self-centered way to think about it_, says Leah.

They are practical wolves, and I am so _human_, so petty.

"I'm going to kill him," I say, reaching down for my quiver of arrows and my longbow. "Is there anything in the rules about not killing the Stone One?"

Jacob and Leah both look at me. _It … has never been spoken about. We do not know. It is not forbidden, but it may be impossible_, Jacob says as Leah continues to stare.

"Did I make him?" I ask.

_He existed here long before you ever came to us. You protected us from him, but he has always been, as far as the wolves remember_.

"But how can that be?" I ask. "Didn't I create you?"

_You created us—Jacob and Leah and Seth and our lost brethren—but we have always been and have always been ready to be called. We have been here forever, and we are newly born. When we die, we disappear, but we live on when you call us again, the same, but new_.

I can almost understand what they are saying. I can always call new wolves into being, but wolves have always lived here, wherever _here_ is. Maybe their memory stretches back too, the way Jacob is always saying that things live on in their memories. Is each wolf born imprinted with the entire history of this land?

"Did I come to this place willingly, or was I called?"

_We do not know, and even if we did, we would not be able to tell you_, says Jacob.

My brain is flooded with memories of my day in the waking, my horrible reunion with Renee. I feel a strong desire to find the scraps of linen that wrapped me and my weapons before I awoke here. _Where are you, my burial shroud?_ I think. _Let me feel where you are_. The longbow in my hand begins to hum a little, and, just as in the graveyard this afternoon, I close my eyes and walk where I feel pulled. The bow leads me around into the forest, stopping at a tall redwood tree with a large hollow in its trunk. I reach in and pull out the scraps. I don't know how the scraps ended up here, but since the hilltop where I first became aware again now holds the rebuilt Citadel, I suppose the scraps had to go somewhere. Although, I also have a feeling that normal, waking logic does not hold in this world.

I get down on my knees so I can better pull out the strips of linen. I don't know what I'm looking for, but it feels important. My body is telling me to keep searching. I'm almost at the bottom of the scraps in the hollow, my arm in past my elbow, when I touch something that does not seem to belong in this world at all. I roll the soft, cylindrical object between my fingers as I pull my arm back out. In the muted sunlight of the forest I see that it's a cigarette butt with a lipstick stain.

_Renee_.

I touch the print Renee's hateful mouth made where she sucked on the filter. So many things I've forgotten from my childhood, but as I touch this bit of trash, images begin to flicker painfully into my brain like little jolts of electricity. I see again the ashtrays all around the house, cigarette butts, her lipstick always marring the ends.

I know from all his stern dad talks that Charlie thinks it is a disgusting habit, at least for me, but he never said anything judgmental to Renee. I can't remember that he did. There were ashtrays on every table in the house, on the countertops in the kitchen, even on the back of the toilet.

Of course Charlie would have let her smoke all she wanted. He wanted her to be happy. He couldn't try to contain her spirit. I don't even like using the word _spirit_ for Renee—nothing so light and ethereal and infused with good could come out of her. Are there bad spirits? I suppose there are. I imagine Renee's like a polluted smog fog, like the exhalation of carcinogens after Renee sucked on the cigarette butt in my hand.

And just like that, I remember now, how it happened, how I left the dreaming. It's all in this cigarette butt with the lipstick stain, repressed memories stinging my brain like jellyfish tentacles.

* * *

I walked out of my kindergarten classroom, swinging my red Snoopy lunchbox. I was surprised to see Charlie waiting with the other parents instead of Renee.

"Daddy!" I ran to him and hugged his legs, the force of my swinging arm bringing my lunchbox around and banging into his shin, but Charlie didn't seem to mind. He absentmindedly patted me on the head like a dog, taking my hand and walking me to the cruiser.

He got the booster seat out from the trunk and put it in the backseat. I could buckle myself in. "Where's Mommy?" I asked when he'd started the car. I tried to look at his eyes in the rearview mirror, but he was looking elsewhere, lost.

"She … she's going away."

"Going away? Like on a trip?"

"Something like that," he said in a strained voice.

When we were home, there was a strange car in the driveway. Renee was dragging an old, stained duffel bag down the front stairs. The strange car was packed to the gills. There was no driver.

She swore under her breath when she saw me.

"Mommy, are you going on a long trip?" The car seemed too full.

Renee wouldn't look at me. She had a cigarette dangling from her lip, the end glowing brightly as she took another puff, flicking away the ash. She hoisted the bag into the backseat of the car. She slid into the driver's seat and was about to pull the door shut when Charlie stopped the door with his hand.

"Look, I know I can't make you stay, Renee, but goddamn it all to hell, you _will_ say goodbye to your child." I'd never heard Charlie sound this angry or even say these many words at once.

I heard Renee laugh coldly. "Are you _threatening_ me, Sheriff Swan?"

The fight went out of him. "Do what you have to do, Renee. You can treat me however you want. But she's your _daughter_, your _baby_."

I remember standing in confusion watching this exchange. These people looked like my parents, but they behaved like strangers. I clutched the Snoopy lunchbox in my hands tightly, the plastic handle digging into my palms like the monkeybars at recess.

With an exaggerated sigh, Renee got back out of the car in her ridiculous heels and brightly colored capris.

"Izzy, sweetheart," she said, crouching down to be eye level with me, "Mommy loves you, but Mommy needs to go away."

"You need to?" I said, puzzled.

"Someday you'll understand, Iz."

"Are bad people trying to get you?" I'd overheard enough talk from Charlie and noticed when he'd have to tear out of the driveway in the cruiser with the sirens blaring.

"No, Izzy. I'm going away because I want to. I need to, but it's my choice. And that's what being a woman now is all about, Izzy. Choices. And I'm making this one."

"Can I come with you?" I asked. I hardly was ever alone with Charlie; Renee was my constant. I glanced over Renee's shoulder and saw Charlie watching us, his face perfectly still, his eyes glassy and unseeing, like the dead fish he'd bring back from his weekend expeditions.

"No," she said flatly. Just that. Just "no." Not an explanation, not an excuse, just block letters ten feet tall in my brain in indelible ink. _NO_.

She hadn't touched me, but I recoiled as if I'd been slapped. I clutched the Snoopy lunchbox more tightly.

"When are you coming back?"

She sighed. "I'm not. I won't be coming back."

"Renee!" Charlie snapped. He still hadn't moved from his spot by the foreign car. "She's just a child!"

"What do you want me to do, _Sheriff_? Give her false hope? Did that ever help you?" My parents were strangers to each other and to me. Maybe this was all just a dream.

"You're a big girl, Izzy, so I'm not going to lie to you. I'm not coming back. But Mommy loves you. Don't forget that." She took a final puff off the cigarette and tossed it onto the front walkway. I watched the stub fly in an arc until it landed, still lit, on the concrete. I stared at the wisps of smoke bleeding out of the dying cigarette.

"Well, kid, I guess this is goodbye." Renee opened her arms to hug me, but I was frightened. This woman, she could not be my mother. Who was that man who looked like my dad but spoke so sharply? They were strangers. I was not supposed to trust strangers. I dropped my lunchbox and ran into the house, up the stairs, and hid under my bed. What was happening?

I heard more shouting, a car door slam, and squealing tires. The door opened, and I heard Charlie's voice.

"Izzy, honey? Are you in here?"

I was crying, but I didn't know why. I didn't understand anything that was happening. Charlie sounded more like Charlie, but like something was missing. I didn't answer him in case he was still a stranger, some sort of monster. _Had they been kidnapped and replaced with monsters with their faces?_

I heard him clomping up the stairs in his work shoes. I scrambled farther away from the door. "Honey? Honey?"

He knew my hiding spots from weekend games of hide-and-seek, so he squatted by the bed and peered in. I stifled a scream. "Oh, there you are." He looked tired. "I'm going to lie down for a bit. You stay there as long as you want, okay?"

That sounded more like Charlie, but again, like part of him was missing. I wasn't afraid of him any longer, but I still waited until I'd heard their bedroom door close before I ventured back out.

I walked cautiously down the stairs to see if Renee was still outside. I'd heard a car drive away, but I still wanted to see for myself. There was only the cruiser in the driveway. My eye was drawn to something bright red on the front lawn. My Snoopy lunchbox. I went out to fetch it. As I bent down to pick it up, I saw the cigarette butt Renee had flung away before trying to hug me. I stepped on the end and twisted my foot on top of it the way I'd seen her do countless times. I reached down to pick up the butt. Her lipstick had stained the end, as always. She was always reapplying her bright red lipstick.

I closed my hand around the cigarette butt lightly, as if I'd caught a firefly. I walked back inside, put the lunchbox on a kitchen chair, and went back upstairs. I sat on my bed and stared at the cigarette butt in my hand. "You are the last one," I said to it. I don't know how I understood it, but I did. I knew from Charlie's face, his dead fish eyes, that our lives would never be the same. I touched the lipstick-stained end to my cheek, pretending it was Renee giving me a goodbye kiss.

Charlie ordered pizza that night, when he finally emerged from his room. I thought it was a terrific treat, but I didn't know then that it was the first of many nights of pizza, leftover pizza, and new pizza again. Charlie sat numbly in the living room and watched TV, not even telling me to go to bed. This also felt a little like a holiday, but somehow not right either.

When I started yawning, I went back upstairs. The cigarette butt was still on the bed, and I closed it into my palm as I went to sleep without brushing my teeth. No one had reminded me.

When I woke up in the dreaming, the cigarette butt was still in my hand. I wondered what it was at first, because I hadn't seen anything like it in my wonderful play world of talking wolves and castles and pretty dresses.

It wasn't until I was in the dreaming that I realized, fully, what had happened. _My mommy is gone, and she is never coming home_. In the dreaming I somehow understood more clearly that she had thrown me away. She hadn't wanted to take me with her.

The wolves were eager to play games again, to help me practice my archery skills, but I stood with the butt in my hand.

_Why won't you play with us, Princess Izzy?_ they asked.

"Shh," I said, still staring at my palm. I needed to figure something out.

Finally, I said, "I need to go away. I love you, but I need to go away."

_What?_ The wolves seemed to speak in unison, one whole lupine unit of confusion.

"I am going away now," I said, holding the cigarette butt cupped in my hand, as if that explained everything. "Being a princess means making choices, and I choose to go away forever. I am going away forever now."

_But who will protect us from the Stone One? _they asked.

"Someone else," I said.

_There is no one else_.

"Then you'll have to do it."

_We cannot protect ourselves from him_.

"You'll have to find a way."

_Who will play games with us?_

"You will have to play them without me."

_But __**why**__? What did we do? _

I had no answer. I just started to cry and scream, pushing wolves out of my way. My scream pierced the sky, and it began to rain, something that never happened in this world. As I screamed, the stone walls of the Citadel began to crack. I ran until I was by the Bridge Between, shrieking the whole way, some weird spirit moving through me. The ropes began to fray and unwind until the planks came loose, falling into the river, breaking against the rocks.

_What are you doing? Why are you doing this?_ the wolves asked as they ran after me, confused and hurt. I could sense their fear and bewilderment coming off of them in almost visible particles. I did not answer them. I was a wild thing, wilder than the wolves, my hair tangled and matted with branches and leaves from running through the woods.

I waited until I was in the center of the courtyard in the Citadel before speaking again. The rain had soaked the stone, and everything smelled of wet rock and earth. The wolves filled the courtyard around me. The hair on their backs bristled, and a few wolves looked up at the skies, confused about the wetness coming down. They blinked as raindrops fell into their open eyes.

"I won't be coming back. Wrap me up. Wrap me up and bury me. I won't return."

_But, but, Princess Izzy_—they started to protest.

"_No_!" I shrieked. "No. You do what I tell you. I made you. You have to do what I say. Wrap me up. Bury me. I won't come back. I don't want to be here anymore." As a wolf advanced on me, I stamped my foot and screamed, "_I don't want to be here anymore_!" I found my bow and tried to snap it in two over my leg. Jacob stopped me.

_Princess, please. Please leave us this. The bow has always belonged to the land. We will let you go_.

"You'll _let_ me go? _I_ tell you what to do," I said. I didn't know who was speaking through me. I felt almost as if I were watching from far away.

Jacob let out a sharp bark, and several wolves ran off, coming back with a bolt of fabric. I held onto the end of it as they wound me up tightly, exactly as I had asked. I felt no fear. I just knew this is what I needed to be doing. The process seemed to take hours, and the little butt fell out of my hand part of the way through, ending up somewhere by my leg, tangled up in the linen. My breathing slowed as the wrappings grew tighter, and I was soon damp all through from the rain, which had not stopped falling.

I remembered being dragged through the courtyard, through the grass, and I had a vague memory from another life of someone—a woman—dragging a large bag into the back of a car. Something so familiar, but so hazy … what was it? Did I know her?

The earth was soft underneath me, and I could hear the wolves digging. _Goodbye_, I thought, not sure what I was really saying goodbye to.

_We obey you; you are ours_, Jacob said, barking again. I felt noses and paws nudging me, and then I was falling, falling, landing in rich, damp earth. I felt clods of dirt kicked onto me from above, soft little pats. _Good_, I thought.

The dirt was soon heavy on me, and my mind became empty. Who was I? Why was I lying here? What was this pressure on my chest? What was that muffled sound? It was like the howling of something in pain. Of many things in pain. Before I could wonder about it too much, everything went to white, a blank sheet of paper, bright in its nothingness. I saw nothing and felt nothing. This was peace.

When I woke up the next morning, the TV was blaring, my father still asleep in front of it, the half-eaten pizza from the night before lying cold on the coffee table.

I nudged Charlie awake and said, "I don't want to be called _Izzy_ anymore."

* * *

I think of all these things as I roll this long-forgotten cigarette butt between my fingers. I did all this. I caused the destruction. I create, and I destroy. I made them bury me. I tear the cigarette butt into shreds with my fingers. I dig a hole with my hands, dirt crammed under my nails, and I bury this piece of filth. I stand and stomp on top of the loose earth, pounding it down until it is firm. "Be forgotten, Renee," I hiss. "No longer pollute the land."

I run out of the woods back to Seth's tree. "Jacob! Leah!" I call out. "I remember everything, all of it."

_Do you? _asks Leah skeptically.

"I do. Leah, I am so sorry. I never should have left you. I never should have said those things. I destroyed the bridge. I left you unprotected." I'm crying now. "I made the rains come." I look up at Seth's tree. "And Seth is dead because of it. I will never leave you again. Never."

For the first time, Leah looks at me with something other than contempt. She cautiously comes forward and licks my hand. _It __**is**__ you_, she says, lying down at my feet.

Jacob is sniffing the air. _He is coming back. Are you ready?_

"The Stone One?"

_Yes_.

"How do I kill him?"

_I do not know_.

"I will find a way. He will not hold you prisoner any longer. He will pay for what he did to Seth."

_The price may be high, my princess_.

"I am not afraid," I say, even though my heart is quaking.

_I will stand with you_, says Jacob.

_As will I_, says Leah, getting up and pressing her warm body against my other side.

I can feel the ground rumbling as the Stone One returns. This time, this time I will be ready. I will honor Seth. I will have my vengeance.

_Will you?_ laughs that voice, like bone scraping against bone.

He is coming. He is here.

This meeting will be our last.

* * *

When I wake up, my hand is cupped. I sit up and slowly open my hand, expecting to find nothing.

A shredded cigarette filter rests on my palm, traces of a lipstick smear still visible on one end.

**

* * *

A/N: It was Greg Kinnear!**

**THANK YOU for your votes in the Indie Twific Awards! This story has advanced to the final round in the category of "Best Use of Music as Inspiration WIP." My crackfic, "The Cullen Family Players Present" also advanced to the finals of "Best Crackfic WIP." I'm not sure if I should be proud or ashamed of that. In any case, I am grateful for everyone who pushed this crazy story into the final round and grateful to everyone who is reading.**

**Your reviews are like little fruit stickers on my soul.**

**See you next week!**


	15. Fourteen: She Is Hestia

**A/N: Why, hello! Fancy meeting you here. I'm back! Let's jump right in, shall we?**

**Love to my peeps at Rav UU. *waving***

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer pity the fool who thinks this belongs to me.**

**

* * *

Fourteen: She Is Hestia**

I stare at my hand and at the impossible piece of trash cupped in it. A cigarette butt, shredded as in my dream, with a lipstick stain on the end. Renee's. Renee's cigarette butt, the last one. How is this possible? I put the cigarette butt down on my bedside table and hold my head in my hands. _This is not happening, this is not happening_, I say over and over in my head.

I have finally gone completely crazy.

_Let's think logically about this, Bella_, I say to myself. I mean, I draw in my sleep. It's possible I do more than that. It's possible that I walk around, maybe pick things up. There might have been a cigarette butt under my bed or something. I could have just found it in my sleep, and then dreamed of it because it was in my hand. I could have shredded the filter in my hand when I shredded it in my dream.

That must be it, because the alternative is … impossible.

Isn't it?

I consciously decide to stop thinking about it. I found the cigarette butt in my sleep in a long-forgotten corner of my room, end of story. I think of the rest of my dream. I finally know what happened, why I left the dreaming, why I couldn't remember.

It was me. I was the monster. I destroyed the Bridge Between. I shattered the walls of the Citadel. And I left the wolves unprotected from the Stone One. Any pain, any suffering they felt and still feel was because of me. It's hard to realize that you're the destroyer of such a beautiful and perfect world.

_Fictional, Bella_, I remind myself, glaring at the bit of cigarette butt on the table. What should I do with it? I can't throw it away, as much as I'd like to. It's important. I tape it into my sketchpad on a new sheet of paper and spend time drawing what I remember, the hollow in the tree, the scraps of cloth. Swirling around the big tree I have quick sketches of the wolves wrapping me, burying me. And at the roots of the great redwood, the remnants of Renee's cigarette butt lie quietly menacing like some sort of fairytale snake, the filter leaching all the color off the page like a straw, the lipstick stain at its tip bright and startling like a bruise.

I flip back a few pages to see Seth again. I miss him. How can I miss him so much? He's not real. He was never real. But I feel like I've lost someone dear to me. He's about as real as Edward Cullen, at this point, maybe more so. _At least Seth loved me_, I think, and then I shake my head to stop this train of thought. This is a train of thought that leads to Crazytown. They are just dreams. Dreams are important, sure, but they aren't real. I created this world because I needed to. I mean, why do any of us dream?

_Don't let the dreams poison your waking_, I tell myself, and I have to laugh. I'm laughing because I'm admonishing myself for putting too much stock in dreams, in memories of my imaginary wolf friend, when I've traveled across the country for the first time since I left home for college just because some boy who barely knew I existed died in a freak accident. What's more ridiculous? I don't know. I just feel pathetic and sad.

Today is my last full day in Forks. I'm not leaving here until around lunchtime tomorrow, but traveling days are so weird. They are strange, in-between places, like jetways, neither one thing nor the other, and therefore somehow sinister. It strikes me that that's also what's wrong with the Stone One, neither entirely human nor entirely monster, and therefore unknowable and terrifying.

But why is the Stone One afraid of me? Why am I able to stop him from attacking? Is it just who I am? Is it because I created the world? I seem to hold a lot of power in the dreaming, when in waking life I am ineffectual, forgettable, clumsy. _Or maybe_—I flip again to the picture that scares me, of me lashed to the stake and crosspiece—maybe I am just a scarecrow. Maybe I represent something greater; maybe I am the shadow of some far more powerful force, and _this_ is what keeps the Stone One from destroying the wolves when I am there.

I have vowed to finish him the next time I see him. He was approaching the Citadel right before I awoke. Will he harm Jacob and Leah while I'm not there? Maybe just my return has been protection enough for them, my shadow lingering there, a ghostly imprint, during my waking hours. The shadow of the Shadow. Maybe that's enough.

I'm not sure how I'm going to spend this day. I have no one left to see. I will bake Charlie that cake, though. So, shopping, baking, waiting. That will be my day. I'm struck again by how different I am in the waking. In the dreaming, I am Artemis, fierce with my arrows, but in Forks I am merely Hestia, tending the fires. But that's important too. Charlie needs looking after. I can't bear the thought of leaving him again tomorrow. I want to bake him enough cakes to fill his freezer, individually-wrapped reminders of how much I love him.

He must know, right? He must know how much I love him just by being around me, but what is our human need to have tangible objects as proof? Or maybe that's just me. But Charlie and I are so similar that I know it would mean more to him if I could leave something physical behind. When I'm back in Boston tomorrow, it'll be harder for him to feel the love radiating out of me across three thousand miles of cell phone towers and telephone wire, especially when neither of us is remotely good at communicating.

How many cakes can I bake before Charlie gets home for the night?

I take a quick shower and think, _This is the second-to-last shower I will take here for a long time_. I'm strangely nostalgic about everything as I pull the brush through my wet hair. I throw on some clothes from my bag, which I never bothered unpacking. Maybe I should have unpacked, put some things back in my dresser drawers. Why didn't I? Maybe I wanted to underline the fact that this is temporary. I shouldn't get too comfortable, because I'm only going to leave again. I don't want to be the girl who lived here, the girl who Renee threw away, the girl who didn't exist to Edward Cullen.

But that also means denying that I was the girl who was so much loved by Charlie. The one who still is, and the one who will break his heart tomorrow by going away again, to return … when? Maybe never. Maybe I'll never be brave enough again, and I hate myself a little for being brave for Edward Cullen and not for my father.

Love makes you stupid.

I put on my parka before leaving the house, because in less than a week, my body has already acclimated again to Forks weather. I'm chilled in the damp now. I shiver just thinking about the bone-aching cold that awaits me when I return to Boston. _When_, I keep reminding myself, trying to be optimistic. I will survive the flight. I will see Rosalie again.

I lightly lay my finger in the dent in my truck's bumper before climbing in and starting the engine. I make a list in my head as I wait for the heat to kick in: eggs, butter, flour, sugar, baking chocolate, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder. Basically everything. I didn't check the cupboards before leaving the house, but I know Charlie won't have anything but salt. There might be flour, but I can imagine it's infested with weevils. I vow to clean out the pantry and cupboards before leaving. It's the least I can do, just set Charlie up so he'll be okay until I come back.

_If_, I correct myself, unable to be optimistic on that front.

I'm on autopilot as I drive, thinking about my dream, wondering how on earth I'll be able to defeat the Stone One. I go over what I know in bullet points in my head. I didn't create him. He existed before I became aware of the dreaming. When I abandoned the wolves, when I shrieked and destroyed everything beautiful in the Citadel, he was not destroyed. So I don't have power over him, not like that. But I'll make him pay for what he did to Seth and to countless other wolves during my long absence. Somehow. I have to. I'll make it okay in case I have to leave again someday.

I stop the car and am surprised to find myself not at the grocery store but at the cemetery again. As much as I know I should take the car out of park and turn around to head to the grocery store, my body won't obey. I'm having a tug of war with myself over taking the keys out of the ignition. I want to keep them in there, but my body fights me the whole way. My body wins, and I'm sitting there in my truck with my keys clutched in my hand. Fine. I'll go see him again, or the place where he will come to rest one day. One day soon, I hope.

I don't think I'll run into Alice today. I pick my way through the springy grass, hoping I remember where to go. I needn't have worried, as my feet seem to know the way. I stare at them as they carry me through the fields. I close my eyes, surrendering myself completely to my body's control, and I hear the wind, some birds chirping, and an occasional car zipping down the road. I bark my shins against something hard, and when I open my eyes to rub the pain away, I see I'm back at the Cullen gravestone.

I should have brought something to leave here. I kneel down to trace his name again. _Edward Anthony Cullen_. His name is here, etched on stone, another something tangible. But how tangible can a grave be if it's empty?

I get up stiffly and walk to the tree I hid behind yesterday when Mrs. Cullen came to fetch Alice. I put my hand on the trunk and make a slow circle as I walk around its circumference. I feel like I'm looking for something, but I don't know what. And then I see, hidden among the golden pine needles, a little slip of paper just like the one Alice gave me yesterday. I brush the needles away and extract the note, thinking idly of Boo Radley.

It's folded in half, just like the other one. The outside just says, _Hi_. My hands tremble as I open the note. It could be from anyone, but I'm pretty sure it's Alice, the same paper, the same pencil pressed hard against the paper. I don't know what I'm expecting to find as I unfold the note. All it says is, _I can see you_.

I glance around—can she see me now? Is this note even for me? She could have been leaving a note for Edward, maybe, or maybe her tiny ghost sister, little Emmy. Still, I pocket the paper, knowing I'll tape it into my sketchpad once I get home. Shit, I'm so selfish. This note might have been left here for Edward or Emmy. But then again, even if it were, it would blow away, get trampled on, get thrown away, or become tattered in the wind. I'll keep the note safe for whomever it's truly for.

And maybe I'm the intended recipient. I don't know.

I sit among the pine needles and lean against the tree, planning out the rest of the day. Groceries, then cake. And Charlie. We'll do something tonight. Maybe I should rent a movie. I should check the TV listings first—there might be a game. I fiddle with the needles around me, smoothing them out, lining them up until they're facing the same way. My hand catches on something, and I brush the needles away until I uncover a small, smooth rock with jagged edges. It doesn't look like anything that would occur naturally here—someone must have dropped it. It's black with an iridescent sheen, volcanic glass of some sort.

I take my phone out and text Rosalie: _Hey, U took Rocks 4 Jocks, right?_

She texts right back, _Best gut I ever took. Pretty rocks! Pretty!_

I take a picture of the rock in my hand and text it back to her. _What the hell is this?_

It takes a minute or two, but she texts back, _I took that class CR/D/F, but I think it's obsidian. Shiny. Can I put it in my mouth?_

I laugh. Rosalie is always asking to put things in her mouth. I know, that sounds totally bad, but there's nothing sexual about it. She just … likes shiny things … in her mouth. When we first saw ads for the new iPod shuffle, she grabbed my arm so tightly I was nearly bruised. "Oh my god, when does that come out so I can buy it and put it in my mouth?"

"Rosalie!" I shrieked while trying to pry her fingers off my arm. "Don't you already have an iPod with, like, a gazillion gigs of storage?"

"Well, _yes_, but not one that fits in my mouth," she said, rolling her eyes and enunciating each syllable as if I were not a native speaker of English.

Oh, I miss her. I can't wait to see her tomorrow. I text back, _No, the rock stays here. But thanks 4 yr help_.

I'm about to put my phone away when she texts back, _Killjoy_.

I text back, _Skankbot_.

She replies quickly with: _Mother Whoresa_.

I know I can't win this game. I text, _Well played_, and put the phone away before she can insult me again.

"Hello, Obsidian," I say to the rock in my hand. "How did you get here?" I hold the rock in the filtered light from overcast skies and watch the colors dance across the surface. "I know—you're not for me. But I know a place where you can stay." And I walk back to the Cullen gravestone.

I dig the earth a little with my fingers, making a small pocket to nestle the rock in. Before I put the rock down, I hold it to my mouth and whisper against it, "Edward, if you can hear me, I'm leaving this with you, giving you a little something like you did for me a long time ago. Think of it as a housewarming gift, a rock of approval." I rub my thumb over the stone, gasping as a sharp edge cuts me. Instinctively, I bring my thumb to my mouth, tasting salt and metal. It's not a deep cut at all, and it's already stopped bleeding by the time I take my thumb back out.

My DNA is on this rock now, and as morbid as it seems, something about that makes me kind of happy, that there's a tangible piece left here with him, not just the broken pieces of my heart that will always linger around this gravestone, around all the unanswered questions and rejections and regrets. I plunk the stone down in the little hole I've dug and pat down the earth. I'm reminded of burying the cigarette butt in my dream world, but I force those thoughts out of my head. I will not let Renee into this moment. This moment is for me and for Edward, even though he doesn't know it.

"Can you see me, Edward?" I ask the air, thinking of the note in my pocket. It's kind of funny to think that he must know now—I mean, if there is life and consciousness beyond our world. My love for him is no longer a secret to him if something exists beyond death. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Embarrassed? Glad? Terrified? Maybe all three. "So you know now, Edward. Sleep well," I say, patting the earth down. Still, none of it feels real, and I make my way back to the car, brushing the dirt off my hands.

After my time in the graveyard, I'm barely aware as I make my grocery trip, numbly putting items into my cart, planning out a couple of cakes. As I dig my wallet out at the checkout, I see there's dirt under my nails, Edward's dirt. I curl my fingers up so the cashier won't see them. I stumble back to the truck with two or three grocery sacks on each arm.

There are red marks on my skin from where the bags were looped over my wrists, and I rub them a bit after I start the truck. This is probably my last grocery trip here for a long time, my last drive home from the grocery store. Why do I keep trying to attach significance to every little thing I do today?

I don't bother putting the groceries away when I get home, immediately making two different kinds of cake batter. There are still cake pans around, untouched since I was in high school. I'm not even sure the last time the oven was used before I came home. I fill a couple nine-inch round cake pans with chocolate cake batter and one loaf pan with pound cake. We have only the one oven, so I put everything in and hope for the best. I know the rounds will be done first, and then I can adjust the temperature for the pound cake.

As I'm waiting for the cakes to bake, I clear out the cupboards, refrigerator, and pantry of anything that I recognize from before college. The tall kitchen garbage can is soon filled to the brim with nasty old sacks of flour, expired cake mix, Tupperware containers filled with things so green and mossy I don't think I have the stomach to try to save them. They go right in the trash. _Sorry, Mother Earth_, I think.

I bag up the trash and take it to a can around the back of the house, and I go back inside, wash up the dishes, and sit at the kitchen table, waiting. I pull the note out of my pocket and read it again. _Hi. I can see you_.

The timer buzzes, and the chocolate cake rounds are done. I adjust the heat for the pound cake, reset the timer, and put the chocolate cake on a rack to cool. What to do now? I'm twitchy. I go upstairs with Alice's note and tape it on the page opposite her other note and the sketch of us at the grave. I'm writing before I'm aware, "Who can you see?" I also draw the rock as I remember, but I'm having trouble capturing its iridescence. It's hard to show all the colors of the rainbow with a graphite pencil. When I get home (_when_, not _if_, I remind myself), maybe I'll try with oils.

I try to draw what the bark on my hand felt like, the pine needles smooth and slippery and fragrant, the sharp edge of the rock piercing the skin on the pad of my thumb. How do you draw sensations? I frown at my pencil in frustration. I can't get my feelings down. Everything I feel inside me is twisted, encrypted, and I can't put it into a form I can touch and share with … well I don't know. I don't know who will ever see this sketchpad, but it seems so important to document. Maybe I'm trying to leave something of myself behind, so someone hundreds of years from now will open the sketchpad and think, _Hmm, I may understand her a bit_. But it all seems so inadequate, the dark mass inside me incapable of being captured in graphite on paper.

I can smell the pound cake all the way in my room, and I'm halfway down the stairs when the buzzer goes off. It's come out with a nice crust, cracked open and showing off its bright yellow center. _Hi. I can see you_.

Charlie comes home with Chinese takeout, which is a good thing since I hadn't even planned dinner, too busy filling the house with cake-smell. He drifts into the kitchen dreamily sniffing, and I'm reminded of those old Froot Loops commercials with Toucan Sam, following his nose. "Is that cake? Is that cake … _for me_?" he asks with awe and hope.

"Well, I couldn't very well leave here without baking you at least one cake," I say, shrugging and looking away, smiling to myself. I made him happy. It eases the feeling of guilt gnawing away at my insides at the thought of leaving him. "How was work?" I ask, just trying to fill the space with sound.

"The usual," Charlie shrugs, getting out a butter knife and cutting into one of the chocolate cake rounds. "Maybe quieter. Fewer people out, Friday the thirteenth and all."

Oh! Oh. It's Friday the thirteenth. I used to be a little superstitious about the date, and I'm glad I didn't know as I went along my errands. Of course it's Friday the thirteenth—it's why I opted to fly back on Saturday and not Friday, not believing a plane with me in it would make it to Boston safely on such an inauspicious date. Oh god, I'm flying again in less than twenty-four hours. I grip the table to keep from floating away, trying to hold my molecules together and not dissipate into the air like a gas.

"Bells, honey, are you okay?" Charlie asks through a mouthful of cake.

"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine," I say, deciding not to share with Charlie my struggle to stay in solid form. "Just thinking about flying tomorrow."

"You'll do great, kid," he says, rubbing my shoulder soothingly. Oh, how I wish I could take Charlie with me on the plane to calm me when my inevitable freak-out happens. But I also can't stand the thought of putting him in that kind of danger. He'll be safe here in Forks, lonely but safe. And if I had to choose, I'd keep him safe above everything else.

"Is there a game on tonight?" I ask, getting plates and forks out for dinner.

"Nope, the Huskies have the night off," he says, opening containers and popping an eggroll in his mouth.

"Do you want to eat here or in the living room?" I ask, eyeing the food on my plate warily. I'd forgotten how bad Chinese was out here, how bland. It may as well be plain pasta with butter. Soy sauce cures most ills though, so I'm glad the takeout bag is filled with many little plastic packets of the stuff. I feel somehow disloyal, though, thinking bad thoughts about little Forks. This is my home. I don't want to turn into one of those big city, Ivy League snobs, or worse, like Renee, who hated everything about this place for no reason other than her being a horror of a human being.

"Up to you, kid," Charlie says. I hate making decisions. I hate when things are up to me—I feel so responsible for everyone. I try to think, _What would Charlie rather do?_ If I know him the way I think I do, he'd be uncomfortable with the silence if we stay here.

"Let's go to the living room," I say, taking my plate, fork, and a few packets of soy sauce with me. Charlie follows me, and this feels like the right decision.

Once we get settled in our usual spots, Charlie flips through channels, trying to find something we both want to watch. There's a nature special on primates, a little bit of Jane Goodall and her chimps and a lot about Koko the gorilla. He sneaks a glance at me, and I know he can tell just from the way I sit up a little straighter and lean forward that I want to watch. He puts the remote control down and starts eating his food in earnest. I cry when it gets to the part about Koko's little cat. I remember learning in school about Koko, about how she wanted a pet, how she'd chosen this little cat without a tail and named him All Ball. Even though I know the end of this story, that All Ball escapes the cage and gets hit by a car, it's still devastating for me when the serious-voiced narrator tells us of All Ball's fate. Watching Koko try to sign her grief with her limited vocabulary feels so familiar, sorrow tearing away at her, and all she can say is "cry" and "sad." Those two tiny words can't possibly convey the immensity of her grief. I sniffle into my lo mein, and Charlie pats me on the arm.

"You're such a softie," he says, but he says it with tenderness. He's not criticizing.

"Yeah," I agree, leaning against his shoulder. "I'm a marshmallow."

The food is actually not half bad, and I'm sort of proud of Forks for stepping it up and pretending to be ethnically diverse, at least cuisine-wise. Charlie starts watching some old Van Damme movie, and that's my cue to go to bed. I get the plates and kiss Charlie on the head. _This is the last time I'll kiss Charlie goodnight for a long time_, I think, and I wonder what words I would sign to try to express what I am feeling.

**

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A/N: You don't bury survivors!**

**OMG I can't believe I finally stumped TwirlGrrl with my spoiler last time! Woo! Victory lap! You can see I've moved onto brain teasers. Maybe more movie spoilers next time.**

**Final voting for Indie TwiFic Awards is happening now! This story is up for Best Use of Music WIP, if the Indie voting spirit moves you to pull the lever (or click the button) that way. No hanging chads! But, you know, whatever. I'm just happy you're reading this. Grool.**

**Thanks for your awesome reviews!**


	16. Fifteen: She Is Artemis

**A/N: Holy shizz, thanks to algonquinrt for pimping me out in her most recent (and uberfuckawesome) chapter of Mr. Horrible, a story which completely owns my Elusive Unicorn ass! **

**Hi, new readers! Hi! I'm doing the happy bunny dance around your ankles.**

**Love as always to mah Ravelbitches.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer will break my thumbs if I pretend this shizz is mine.**

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Fifteen: She Is Artemis**

I make my way up the stairs slowly, trying to remember the feel of each step under my feet, the banister under my hand. _This is the last time I'll go up the stairs to this bed for a long time_, I think again. I feel like I've squandered my time in Forks and am trying to make it up in these last few hours home. I should have been bonding, making memories, reconnecting with old friends, but half the time I moped around or was a lump in the house. Charlie and I should have, I don't know, gone fishing or something. Done stuff together. But then again, it's the mundane that I miss the most, our daily routines, the silent bonding over dinner and TV in the living room, the security of knowing Charlie is sleeping in a room down the hall from me. So would I have lived this week differently? I don't know. I honestly don't.

I hate this. I hate life sometimes, the way that every choice facing me sends me into an infinite loop of indecision, of worrying so much about the consequences of my actions that I become completely inert. I hate the way life seems to slip through my fingers, how I dig my heels into the ground to make time go more slowly so I can savor each moment but then don't ever _do _anything. It seems that all I want to do is live a quiet life, but somehow that seems like a waste of living. I think of Edward Cullen. He didn't waste his life. He pursued his dream. Music was his life, and he went out there and made it happen. I am positive he would have made it, too—things were just starting to happen for him. How much more might he have accomplished if he'd been given the chance? It makes me feel ashamed of my life, wasteful.

Because what have I done? I dropped out of art school. I am a cog in the wheels of Corporate America—and not even a true cog, but a temporary one. I draw obsessively, but for no purpose. I'm so afraid to fly that I hardly ever see the only man who will love me completely for the flawed person I am.

Before I left for college, I was bubbling with excitement at all the _potential_ of what my life would become. I was headed to Longfellow University—that that made me _somebody_. It didn't matter how invisible I was at school—getting accepted to Longfellow was a huge achievement. I think I was the first person in the history of Forks Country Day to get in. Longfellow admits plenty of Hollywood stars and children of famous people, but they also seem to look for people filled with potential, people who will Be Somebody someday. Before I left for college, I felt like a mystery seed packet, something that might grow into a rare plant, something either so beautiful that I'd inspire poets, or so useful and healing that I would cure a million diseases. Rosalie grew into something like that, a sunflower always smiling at the heavens. And I? I don't know if I even sprouted. All those years of careful cultivation in rich soil, and I'm still trapped in my husk, refusing to burst out and become … something else. Something greater. I'm too afraid, I guess, to decide what I am and put down roots. Or maybe deep down I know I'm not special at all.

So I'm just me, nothing more and nothing less. Some days that feels like enough, and others, well …

I start packing my bag, not sure how early Charlie will want to leave in the morning to make the long drive to SeaTac. Since I never actually _unpacked_ my bag, the task doesn't take long, but I am determined to pack semi-tidily instead of balling everything up the way I did for my trip out here. I fold my shirts and pants neatly, gather up my dirty laundry in a plastic bag, and then open the closet door to pack away the black dress I wore to Edward's memorial. I roll it up to minimize the wrinkling, and when I turn back to close the closet door, I see the one remaining item of clothing in there, my homecoming dress, alone again as it has been these years I've been away. Set in motion when I removed the other dress, it still sways gently on the wooden dowel, appearing eerily alive like a totem, a scarecrow.

I deliberately did not bring the old velvet dress with me to college, because when I saw it, I could not stop seeing that kiss, Edward leaning down, Angela's surprised face, and who knows what else. I'd relived the scene so many times in my head, adding in details that I couldn't possibly have seen—his hand cupping her cheek, her fingers twined in his hair, the way her eyes opened in shock before she melted and let her eyelids drop. None of this happened. All of this happened. Schroedinger's kiss.

But now? I'm not sure I can leave it behind. _He danced with me in this dress_, I think. Nothing separated my skin from his in that moment except this fabric, carefully hung and swathed in plastic. I shiver, thinking of how close he was to me, so close yet so far away in his head, absentmindedly singing Clapton and wishing I were someone else. How can I leave this dress behind now? Maybe the fabric still holds the memories of his hands. The velvet may remember his touch, the heat from his palms.

Before I know it, I've put the dress away in my bag, keeping it on the hanger and in the plastic, just folding it into thirds and laying it on top of the pile of neatly packed clothes. I don't zip up the bag, knowing I'll need to shove my pajamas in there in the morning.

I get ready for bed ceremoniously, carefully putting a glob of toothpaste on my toothbrush, watching my mirror self methodically brush her teeth. It almost feels like a religious ritual. _This is how I get ready for bed in my father's house_. I want to remember what it's like, because by tomorrow night this place will once again feel like it was only a dream.

Once I'm in my pajamas, I walk around the perimeter of my bedroom, trying to commit every last detail to my memory: the scuffmarks on the wall from moving in my desk, the burn mark of a cigarette Renee had put out on my carpet when she'd come home drunk one night, the bare spot on the window where as a child I'd scratched the paint off to make a tiny wolf while I looked out the window, willing Renee to come back to us. As I walk around the room, running my hand along the walls, I'm reminded of the circle I made around the tree in Edward's cemetery. My eyes sweep the floor as I walk, looking for another note, another piece of obsidian. Of course all I see is carpet that ought to have been replaced years ago.

I'm getting on a plane again tomorrow. I imagine myself strapped to the seat, and I break out into a cold sweat. I fumble for my sketchpad and flip toward the back, to Alice's notes. _Hi. I can see you_. Why does it comfort me to think this note is for me, that she can see me? That she can see _me_, somehow? Is the comfort just in the fact that _someone_ from that family can see me?

But of course the note is not for me, and Alice knows … only what I've told her, my obsessive love. I think of Alice in school, of how rough things must be for her now that she's lost her protector, the boy who could make her laugh and forget whatever horrors took the power of speech from her. My life seems pretty easy compared to that. Surely I can get on a plane if there are people like her living much harder lives. I think of Mrs. Cullen's pain, of the emptiness she must feel in the space where her ghost children used to live within her, when she was their sole nourishment and protection. It must be so hard to be a mother, once your children are out in the dangerous world, no longer shielded by your flesh and organs.

I am almost too afraid to go to sleep, too nervous thinking about flying tomorrow. What if this is my last night on earth? Well, then, I'm glad I could spend it here with Charlie. I don't think I can go to sleep, but then I remember that the Stone One is waiting for me. I will honor Seth. I will keep all the wolves safe. If this is my last night on earth, I will make certain that the wolves will be okay after I am gone. I owe them at least that much.

I keep the sketchpad by my bed, feeling braver with Alice's notes taped in there. I shut off the light, lie with my palms up, and prepare to do battle. When sleep doesn't come right away, I close my eyes and picture Seth's tree, the weeping cherry. _I can see you_, I whisper in the dark, and I start saying it again and again in my head like a mantra until finally the feeling of my sheets below me and my blanket on top begins to dissolve, and I'm in between, returning to end the Stone One once and for all.

* * *

Every muscle in my body is tense as I become conscious. It's as if I never left, except that I feel the weight of the quiver on my shoulder and back and the longbow in my hand. How did I arm myself while I wasn't here? Did I make it happen just by preparing myself to face him? Leah and Jacob are both still pressed against me on either side of my body, and the rumbling continues, growing steadily louder, closer, rocking the ground beneath my feet.

"I am ready for you!" I scream to the air.

The Stone One laughs in his unsettling, scratchy way. I know my fear is sweet to him, ambrosia on his concrete tongue. How, _how_ then, am I able to stop him? The last time I faced him, I was able to shut down my brain and let my body, my muscle memory take over. For a moment I became the little girl I used to be, the girl who was unafraid and had believed she was loved.

But was that all that saved me? Maybe … maybe in this world he cannot hurt me. Maybe those are rules _he_ must follow.

So what happens when _he_ breaks the rules?

My mind is spinning a thousand different thoughts and scenarios. There must be some way. I make a show of putting my weapons away.

_Is that the wisest thing to do, abdicator?_ asks the Stone One with something like a smile on his face, too grotesque to be truly called a smile. _I thought you wanted to finish me_.

"What's the point?" I ask. "It seems that these arrows have done nothing except to keep you away for a time. You're invincible, aren't you?"

_Your arrows alone cannot harm me_, he says.

"So, you _can_ be harmed," I say, arching an eyebrow.

_Oh, how amusing, little abdicator. As if you would be capable of such a thing on your own. You are so feeble and vulnerable._

"Then why do I keep you away? Why are you unable to hurt the wolves while I am here?"

_I seem to recall that I was able to do away with your Seth while you watched. Or rather, while you looked away like the coward you are_.

"You will _never_ say his name again. I forbid it. His name is holy now, and you … _nothing_ about you is sacred," I snarl, my fury almost unable to be contained in my small frame. If my anger were visible energy, I'd be glowing like an ember. "You are not _fit to speak of him again_."

He grinds his teeth, a horrible sound that makes the skin on the back of my legs prickle. I feel coiled up like a spring, ready to flee. But I notice he also doesn't challenge me about Seth's name. Another thing to file away.

I try to capitalize on my fury, still burning hot within me. "You talk about how sweet my fear is to you," I say, trying to keep my voice steady and menacing. "Do you want to taste it? Wouldn't it be more wonderful if you could actually feel my skin in your mouth?"

I … have no idea what I'm doing, or who is speaking through me. What am I offering to do? I think of when I tried to offer my life for Seth's, and how I didn't really mean it. But at this moment, I don't feel in danger. _I can see you_, I whisper to myself, and somehow, somehow it makes me feel like I have power here. _I _have power, not the Stone One.

_Princess, what are you saying?_ asks Leah, looking at me with frantic eyes. _You cannot challenge him. You cannot tempt him in this way. You will doom us all forever._

"No. It's going to be fine," I say, taking a few steps toward him. Leah grabs at my dress with her teeth, trying to hold me back.

And like I'm watching my dream self on Charlie's flatscreen, I begin to advance on the Stone One, who stares at me with his mismatched eyes. He crouches down, only slightly taller than I am now. His jaw begins to drop, partly in shock, partly in anticipation as I prepare to do … I'm not sure what. At this point, I'm just watching myself from a distance, strangely disconnected from what's happening.

_You can't do this! _I hear Leah scream behind me. _We __**need**__ you here_.

"Can't you see?" I say calmly, not turning around. "I'm making sure you will be okay no matter what."

_Stop her, Jacob, please_, begs Leah.

_My princess_, says Jacob in measured tones, _I cannot say that I understand what you are doing. But I trust you. I always trust you_.

Leah yelps, betrayed by her fellow wolf, the only other one remaining.

I'm still advancing slowly toward the Stone One, and I know now what I need. I see it clearly in my head, the obsidian I found at Edward's grave.

_Come to me_, I call in my heart. _A piece of me remains on you, so you know how to find me_. I close my eyes, daring to do this in front of the beast, holding my hands out and waiting. I don't sing, because that doesn't seem right for this situation, but I hold my hands out and wait. _Come to me_, I say again. _My blood marks you. Find me. Find the source._ My thumb begins to throb a little where I was cut earlier, pulsing like some sort of beacon.

Is it my imagination? My silly imagination in this dream world? Behind my eyelids flicker images of Edward's empty grave, the ground in front rumbling slightly, the irregular slab of obsidian beginning to vibrate, to tunnel up. Maybe it's just positive thinking, wishful thinking. _Come to me, obsidian,_ I say again in my heart.

And just like that, I feel something cool and smooth in my hand. I close my fist around it. I don't need to look to see that the obsidian has found me. _Now what?_ I think.

What did the Stone One say? _Your arrows alone cannot harm me_. I feel the stone in my hand, roughly triangular. Like an arrowhead. Why did I leave my longbow behind me? Now I'll have to get close in order to harm him. I don't think I'm brave enough for that. _I can see you_, I hear in my head, but it's in Seth's voice, and I see pink petals of his tree flutter past me in a sudden, gentle breeze.

_Princess_, the Stone One says in that sneering tone, _is that an offer? Are you allowing me to taste you?_

"You can't harm me. I can see it now," I say, but I'm not certain. After all, the wolves are safe when I am here, except when they break the rules. Am I breaking a rule? Can he harm me if I break a rule? _They're only dreams, Bella_, I try to reason with myself. I can't be harmed here anyway. I can be harmed only in the waking. I think. I think that's how it must work.

Oh god, I'm flying in a few hours. This could be my only chance to make things right here. It's got to be now.

I put my hands behind my back and scrape the obsidian roughly against my palm. I wince as the sharp edge cuts my flesh. My blood wets the rock, and the rock seems even sharper when I test the edge with my fingertip. Perhaps my blood here whets the rock as well. I run the edge against my palm again, and the edge bites like fire against my hand. I palm the bloodied rock in my right hand and show the Stone One my wounded left one.

"Can you smell the fear in my blood?" I ask, taking another step forward. My heart is racing. I have no idea what I'm doing.

_It is less sweet if it is willingly given_, he says, pretending to be uninterested, but I can sense the struggle within him.

"Well, tough shit," I say, taking another step. "Will you take my blood instead of theirs now? Will you stay away?"

_You don't seem to understand the way of this world. I will always be here. I have been here forever. You cannot ask me to leave for all time. I belong here._

"Take my hand," I say, walking closer. I can feel his resolve crumbling. My blood confuses him, somehow. "This is my gift to you, freely given. Payment. A compact." I advance with my arm outstretched, trembling, fearing the pain of his crushing jaw.

_Princess!_ screams Leah behind me. I hear feet bounding on the soft ground, but I'm too involved in this showdown with the Stone One to know what's happening until it is too late.

Leah jumps on my back, knocking me to the ground, and leaps up to the Stone One. _You __**will not harm her**__! _she screams as she continues to soar up in the air. Nonplussed, he simply opens his jaw wider and snaps it closed as she sails right in.

I can feel the moment she dies, a burning pain inside me. Another part of my heart has been snapped off like a royal icing icicle on a gingerbread house.

_Do you see now, princess, what your foolishness has done?_ he sneers.

I get up, not bothering to dust myself off. Fighting the tears in my eyes, I make a mad dash for him as he laughs. _Why did you do it, Leah?_ I think. _I'm not worth that. I'm not worth that, especially to you_.

I run up to him and mark him with my left hand, a bloody handprint looking almost like a Georgia O'Keeffe poppy. It's tiny on his humongous body, but I can feel his stone exterior shift and shimmer. Something has changed when my blood touched him. I take my right hand clutching the bit of obsidian still marked with my blood, and I shove it as far as I can into his mouth, scraping my knuckles against his teeth as I withdraw my hand quickly, leaving the obsidian inside him. He swallows tidily and smacks his stone lips together, which sounds like a crack of thunder.

_You amuse me_, he says, standing up again, lifting his foot as if to trample me.

"You cannot hurt me," I say, but I am more uncertain of it with each second. The obsidian was my only hope, and nothing seems to have happened.

_Find me_, I say in my head to the obsidian, now coated in more of my blood. _Come back to me_. _Find my blood, which gives you life. Find me. Return to me_.

_What is happening?_ asks the Stone One, for the first time sounding afraid.

For a second I think my eyes are playing tricks on me as his whole body seems to vibrate and wobble. Maybe it's the loss of blood. His outlines seem to blur, and his jaw drops again.

The first cracks split out of my bloody handprint on his chest, and they spread rapidly like a spider web woven in fast forward from the center out. I'm unable to move as I watch the cracks climb and circle him. _What have you done to me?_ he says right before his jaw falls from his body, his eyes wide with fear.

I almost pity him.

I'm still frozen as he begins to crumble. I look up, and falling grit lands in my eyes, blinding me. I feel something slap into my hand roughly, and even though I cannot see, I know the obsidian has returned. I can hear stone scraping against stone, and a rock or two pelts me on the head painfully. I rub my eyes with the backs of my hands to get the grit out so I can see, but everything is happening too fast.

Something warm and solid slams into me, knocking the breath out of my body, and I'm being dragged hastily across the ground.

_I have you_, says Jacob, through a mouthful of linen, and I regain my eyesight just as the remains of the Stone One topple over, collapsing in a noisy heap right where I was standing a few moments earlier. _That would have crushed me_, I think, still unsure what would happen if I died here.

After the rubble stops falling and the crashing sounds and echoes fade, it's just me and Jacob side by side, looking at the heap of stone and sand that remains of the monster. A cloud of dust rises from the pile and dissipates in the air. I slowly sit up and put my arm around him.

"Thank you for saving me," I say, choked up.

_You have saved me, princess_, he says simply.

"Oh, Leah," I say, looking at the rubble. "She shouldn't have died for this. You're the last one now."

_It was meant to be. I was the first one_, he says. _She will live on as long as you remember her_.

"Aren't you upset with me? Because of me you are all alone."

_You sacrificed much to keep us safe. You were not able to save Leah, but I know you never meant to harm her_.

I'm crying now, my tears falling on the rock in my hand, mingling with my blood. "Thank you, obsidian," I say to the rock. "Now you go back. Go back to Edward and keep his resting place ready. He'll be there soon. Go back. Welcome him, and tell him he will always be loved." I squeeze my hands together tightly, feeling the edges of the rock bite my palms, and suddenly my hands are empty again.

Jacob laps at my hands, closing the wounds, and we sit for a long time watching the rubble settle.

I know the answer already, but I still ask, "I can't bring her back, can I?"

_It is not the way_, he says.

Still. Still, I can do for her what I did for Seth. I stand up slowly, hold my hands out in supplication, close my eyes, and open my mouth. I sing the song of Leah, the one who distrusted me, hated me, blamed me so much for leaving her, and yet, when it counted, she gave her life for me. She willingly leapt into the monster's mouth so that I could live. Did she do it out of love for me or for love of her wolf brethren? Maybe both. She did love me, a little, at least, and I sing of her bravery, her impetuousness, her anger, and ultimately, her loyalty and sacrifice.

When I open my eyes, there's a cactus, a prickly pear, in a golden patch of sunshine a distance away from Seth's weeping cherry. What a strange place this is, where trees that should never be able to live in the same climate can all thrive side by side. Sharp spines erupt from the green paddles of the cactus, but brightly colored fruit crowns the plant, red as blood, red as love. It is a fitting memorial, I think.

"I'm so sorry, Jacob," I say again. "Will you be all right alone?"

_You are here, princess, and that is all I have ever needed_.

"And you're safe now, now and forever," I say, but Jacob doesn't say anything back.

His ears prick up. _You are being summoned_, he says.

"Summoned? By what? By whom? I don't hear anything."

_You must follow me_, he says, breaking into a run.

"Should I take my weapons?" I ask, glancing over at the spot where I laid them down near Leah.

_He will not harm you_, says Jacob. _He is the Eternal. He merely watches_.

I run after him, catching up easily, since I am Artemis in this world, goddess of the hunt, fleet-footed and brave and strong.

He leads me to the Bridge Between.

_I can go no farther. You must cross the bridge alone_.

"The Bridge? The Bridge actually _leads_ somewhere?" I ask, stupefied. "I thought it just let me carry my thoughts back and forth."

_It leads to the Eternal, sometimes. When he summons you. And you have been summoned_.

I don't have a good feeling about this, but I step onto the bridge, feeling the rough wood against my bare feet, resting my hand on the coarse rope. I look back at Jacob.

_I will wait here for you,_ he says, before I can even ask.

I begin to walk across the bridge, disappearing into the clouds.

* * *

"Bella? Bella, honey? If you want bacon and eggs at the diner before we head the airport, you should get up now." Charlie's scratching at my door, and I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. _This is the last time I will wake up in this bed_, I think, and I stretch my hands out, noting that my palms are crisscrossed with faint scars that weren't there when I fell asleep.

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A/N: The surgeon was his mother!***

**Okay, things are going to get interesting now. That's all I can say. Also, TwirlGrrl's husband called that the blood on the obsidian would be important. I think he is working some crazy FREED EAGLE PI mojo. **

**Your reviews are like oxygen!**

***I've been asked already in a few questions-the first thing in the bottom A/N has nothing to do with the story, and is a random spoiler from a book, movie, or brain teaser. The one above has to do with a son and father in a car crash. The father is dead, but the son is rushed to the hospital. In the ER, when the boy is brought to the operating room, the head surgeon looks down at the boy and says, "I can't operate on him-he's my son!" How is this possible? So there it is. And yes, it is because _some people_ like to read the end A/N first, and I like to fuck with people.**


	17. Sixteen: She Is Summoned by the Eternal

**A/N: Holy CRAP, you guys, Sleepers, Awake won one of the judge's choice award thingies for the IndieTwiFic awards! I … I want to run around naked with my hair on fire! **

**Love to Ravelbitches and to Twilightzoner for reccing my story out at the Indies. I am as happy as a little girl [pulling out my top to make pointy nips].**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, not I, has the Power of Grayskull. I'm probably Orco at best. Maybe Cringer. **

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Sixteen: She Is Summoned by the Eternal**

My palms are etched with faint, spidery scars, and I can remember the feel of cold, sharp volcanic glass in my hands. How…? I rub my eyes roughly and look again. Is it a trick of the light? I sit there for a while staring at my palms until Charlie knocks tentatively, apologetically, on the door again.

"Bells? You up?"

"Yeah, Dad," I say, shaking my head and slowly coming to sitting. None of this is real. It was just a dream. This is getting creepy. Or I'm going crazy. I must not be entirely awake yet. "I'll be ready in about twenty," I call out, throwing the covers off of me.

"Okay then," he says, and my heart is already hurting a little, wondering when the next time will be that his voice will wake me up in this bed. What person will I be when that happens? Who will Charlie be? When will I be brave enough to fly home again? Do we have enough time left together? _Please keep Charlie safe_, I pray to no one in particular. _Keep him safe until I can come home again_.

I shuffle to the bathroom, feeling nostalgic about everything, as if I'm secretly being filmed for a documentary about my life. I'm self-conscious about all my movements, trying to make every gesture significant, in case this time is the last time. As a result, my motions feel stilted and unnatural. I'm having trouble playing the role of myself. I turn on the water, thinking, _This is my last shower in Forks; this is my last shower in my father's house_.

Even the pattern of mildew between the tiles is familiar after my visit here, and I'm already feeling homesick. And I'm still home.

When I get back to my room, I put on my comfy traveling clothes. It's too warm here and on the plane—_oh god, I'm getting on a plane in a few hours_—to put on all the extra layers I'll need to stay warm when I get back to Boston. _When, when, when, not if_, I say to myself. I quickly stuff my pajamas and last bits of dirty laundry in my bag, zipping it closed.

I stop and look at my unmade bed. Should I make it? I want the normalcy of making it. But I'm not going to sleep here tonight. Stripping it bare just emphasizes the cold truth weighing heavily on me that I am not returning here. But I also don't want to make more work for Charlie. I don't want him coming back from dropping me off at the airport and having to clean up my mess, or spending unnecessary time in my room. What does he do when I'm not here? Does he keep the door shut so he doesn't notice too much my bare mattress? Does he ever come in here and just sit?

I opt for stripping the bed, choosing Charlie's convenience over my desire to make my bed here one last time. I try to pretend it's just a normal Saturday laundry day at home with my dad. I'm throwing the comforter on the floor and reaching under the mattress to unhook the fitted sheet. I try to do it fast, like ripping off a band-aid, trying to stop my mind from overanalyzing my gestures and making me so homesick that I'll start crying before leaving for the airport.

I gather the discarded sheets and pillowcases in my arms and head downstairs to put them in the laundry. I say hi to Charlie over my armload of sheets as I pass by the living room. He's on the couch, watching TV as usual. I bump the laundry room door open with my hip and start the load, thinking it's the least I can do. Charlie shouldn't have to spend the rest of his Saturday doing my dirty laundry.

Once I hear the agitator begin its soothing, steady, heartbeat-like rhythm, I go back to my room and fold up my comforter neatly, leaving it at the foot of the bed. I put my bare pillows on top of the comforter, because seeing them uncovered at the head of the bed makes me feel inexplicably uneasy—that in-between feeling again, of only resembling a bed ready to sleep in, a skeleton or a scarecrow imitation of a real bed. With the pillows piled on top of the folded comforter, it no longer pretends to be a bed, and I am okay with that.

I put my sketchpad into my backpack, pack up my toiletries, and walk into the hallway, rolling my carryon. I shut my bedroom door behind me, saying a silent goodbye as the door clicks shut, swallowing back the lump in my throat. I clomp down the stairs awkwardly, and the bag bumps against my leg just as it did on the way down the subway back in Boston almost a week ago. It feels like that happened to a different person. I know so much more now, about Renee, about my wolves. Oh, Leah. Leah, who sacrificed herself for no reason. I was not worth saving, and, worse still, I was never in danger in the first place. I look at my palms again in the dim light in the foyer. They are red from carrying my suitcase down the stairs, so I can't see if the scars I thought I saw when I woke up are still there.

_Here we go round the prickly pear  
Prickly pear prickly pear  
Here we go round the prickly pear  
At five o'clock in the morning. _[1]

T. S. Eliot's words fill my head again as I think of Leah's memorial tree, so different than Seth's, but so fitting for her. I think of Jacob all alone in my dream world, but I think, _Well, at least he is safe. Alone, but safe_. Like Charlie. Even if something happens to me on that plane (_but it won't, it won't, it won't_), Jacob will be safe forever.

"I'm ready," I call out to Charlie, who turns to look at me with a small, resigned smile and shuts off the TV.

"All right, Bells, let me carry your suitcase to the car." He pats his sides to make sure he has his keys, and the gesture is so _Charlie_ that I'm missing the hell out of him already.

I follow him out the door, locking it behind me, and I put my backpack in the front seat as he holds open the cruiser door for me. Here we go.

No.

Not yet.

Before getting into the car, I run back to the front yard, looking up at the house for the last time, trying to force the rods and cones in my retinas to remember every detail, every shingle, every smudged windowpane. Home. _My home_. When will I return?

"Okay, I'm ready," I say in a small voice that Charlie probably doesn't even hear. I turn back and walk to the car, the door of which Charlie is still holding open patiently. I slide in, and he waits until he sees my feet are safely inside before shutting the door for me. I'm already choked up as he opens his door and starts the car.

I want to do nothing but stare at Charlie as we drive, soak up his essence as if my eyes were sponges, but I get distracted, looking out the window at the trees blurring like charcoal smudged under my fingertips. I feel a sudden pull in my heart, and I don't need to look out of Charlie's side of the car to know we're passing the cemetery. _Goodbye, obsidian. Goodbye, Edward,_ I say to myself, pressing my palms together and hoping our obsidian is safely buried, waiting for his arrival.

This is the third time I've been at the diner this week: the first with Angela, when she admitted she remembered nothing of Edward's kiss; the second with Renee, when I learned that I was a result of a drunken revenge fuck; and now with Charlie, the man who fills up all the parts of my universe not already filled with Edward Cullen. We walk slowly to the diner entrance, and I lean my head on his shoulder. I feel like a little girl again, and I want to. I want to cling to this feeling as long as I can, because no one makes me feel as safe as Charlie.

The same waitress who served me last time is waiting at the door to seat us. "Chief Swan!" she says brightly, flashing him a smile and seating us immediately. She glances from Charlie to me quizzically, trying to figure out how we know each other.

Charlie clears his throat. "Marjorie, this is my daughter Bella." I wave awkwardly, embarrassed that she associates me with Renee.

"Bella and I are good pals, aren't we, hon?" she says with a wink. I smile at her gratefully.

"Marjorie's been working here a few years," Charlie says. He puffs his chest out and says to Marjorie, "My girl graduated from Longfellow University!"

Marjorie whistles through her teeth. "Wow! Now that's somethin'. You must be _smart_."

I smile, looking down, happy that I can still make Charlie so proud, but also embarrassed because I feel like a fraud. Yes, I did the coursework and graduated, but what am I doing now? I may as well have stayed in Forks. Answering phones doesn't require a degree from a fancy school. And yet, that degree is all I have that makes me ever think I'm special. It's the one thing Edward ever noticed me for, telling me himself, "You're _smart_." But college was a long time ago, it seems like, and I can't trot out my Longfellow sweatshirt every time I want people to think I'm worth anything.

Marjorie begins to lead us to the same booth I've been sitting at all week, but I shake my head slightly, and she understands immediately, seating us on the other side of the diner. I'm so grateful to her for being able to see me, to understand me without words.

Charlie orders the biggest breakfast platter they offer, and I say, "Dad, your cholesterol, remember?"

But he says, "I'd rather die than give up bacon."

I can grant him that, although I don't like hearing him even joke about dying. I wrap my arms around myself tightly, trying to keep my insides from falling out.

"I think I just want a big glass of orange juice," I say to Marjorie, pushing my menu away.

"Bells, you sure? It's a long flight," asks Charlie with concern.

"I'll be okay, Dad, really. I'm just not very hungry." I clench my jaw so my chattering teeth aren't obvious to Charlie. I don't want to let on how afraid I already am. He'll just worry about me. I just want to cause as little disruption to his life as I can, make things as easy for him as is in my power.

We hardly exchange words during breakfast, but that's as it always is, and everything Charlie does makes me miss him before he's gone, the way he picks up the bacon in his fingers, the way his mustache twitches as he blows on his coffee, the way he gets frustrated at the unwillingness of the ketchup bottle to give up its precious contents. I sip my orange juice, tiny sips, trying to make this moment last.

The orange juice is watery, probably from one of those big dispensers like we had in the dining halls at Longfellow, and there's some pulpy scum on the top of the glass. My last meal in Forks.

"Well, Bells, you ready?" asks Charlie, giving his mouth a final wipe before tossing some well-worn bills on the table. I nod and stand up, adjusting my clothes and trying to get my arms in the sleeves of my parka. Charlie's right there, helping me. I guess I'll always be his little girl. I kind of wish he'd zip up the jacket for me too, but I know that's silly. I am a grown woman.

I am his little girl.

Something squeezes my heart as we drive outside Forks' city limit, the wooden sign rushing past in an illegible blur. Goodbye, Forks. Goodbye, Angela. Goodbye, unworldly Alice and grieving Mrs. Cullen. And goodbye, Charlie.

Renee does not get a goodbye.

We hit a rare sunny patch on Route 101 about halfway through the three-hour drive to SeaTac. I'm staring at my hands, looking for the scars. I see them. At least, I _think_ I see them.

"Hey, Dad?" I ask, turning to my side to look at him.

"What is it, Bells?" he responds, never taking his eyes off the road.

"Do my hands look different to you?" And I hold my palm up near his face for inspection.

He quickly glances over between checking the road, the rearview mirror, the sideview mirror, the speedometer. He drives according to the driver's ed. handbook. "Well, now, I don't know. Do they feel different?"

"Kind of."

"They look the same to me, hon," he says, again giving his full attention to the road.

What was I hoping him to say? That he could see it too, the new spidery lines? Did I want my dreams to be real? Maybe I just wanted it confirmed, because otherwise it meant I was seeing things that no one else could see. And in our cold, logical world, seeing things that other people can't see doesn't equal special; it equals insane.

In the sunlight, I can see my hands lined with filaments that reflect the sunlight. I stare at them until the sun hides once again behind the clouds. I fold my hands and put them in my lap, wondering what on earth is going on in my brain. And all the while I can hear a clock ticking inside me, each second slipping away from me, the last remnants of my remaining time here with Charlie.

I want to make it count, but I don't know what to say to him.

"I've had a great week with you," I start, trying to convey how much it's meant to me to be here.

"Me too, Bells," he says, his eyes crinkling with his smile. "Hope it wasn't too boring after all that excitement in the big city."

"Are you kidding? There is no Charlie Swan in Boston. _There can be only one_," I say goofily.

He chuckles, but there's something behind his eyes that tugs at me, and I'm too chicken to ask the questions that are pressing on my heart: _Charlie, will you be okay alone? Charlie, are you sad? Charlie, should I stay?_

But that's not how we operate, Charlie and I. We are quiet, or we make jokes, or we talk in code.

I want to make this drive last forever, not just because I know there's a terrifying flight on the other end of this journey. This is all I have left with him, this tiny sliver of time. Oh no, and now I've started crying. I look out the window, hoping to shield Charlie from my tears, but soon I'm sniffling audibly, and Charlie takes one hand off the wheel and sort of claps me on the shoulder. "You all right, Bells?"

I bite my lip and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Yeah," I manage to get out, trying to smile. "I just … I'm going to miss you."

Charlie swallows, and I watch his Adam's apple bob. He continues to stare at the road. "Aw, Bells, you'll be back before you know it. And we always have the phone."

_Yes_, I think, _but we never __**say**__ anything_. It's not the same as sitting shoulder to shoulder with him on the sofa. Our voices are mere shadows of who we are when transmitted through wires and speakers. It's not the same.

"Maybe Easter?" I offer, knowing full well that I cannot possibly make the trip back so soon.

"Sure, kid. We can have Peeps exploding races in the microwave like old times."

"Thanks, Dad," I say, smiling weakly but still feeling this hole in my heart.

When Charlie drops me off on the departures level, I look enviously at the people streaming out of the airport's automatic doors, walking with purpose, seeking taxis or pick-ups. They're already home. They're already safe. They've already survived their flights. They already know the end of this story.

Charlie gets my carryon out of the trunk while I open my door and put my backpack on. We hug briefly at the curb, and the tears start up again. I sob for a while into Charlie's shoulder, and I feel so damn selfish, because I know my crying is tearing him up inside. He just holds onto me, whispering, "It's going to be fine, Bells. You'll be back soon. I'll see you soon," over and over until I nearly fall asleep on his shoulder at the soothing tide of his voice.

"Your jacket is all wet now," I say stupidly as we pull away from each other.

"All in the line of duty," Charlie jokes, winking, but he looks away quickly, chewing on his mustache. He's already put my bag on the curb, and all I have to do is turn around, grab the bag's handle, and roll it through the automatic doors. That's all.

But I'm frozen. I can't do it. "Bella?" Charlie asks after I don't move.

I turn and run to him, throw my arms around his neck, and say, "I love you, Dad. I miss you so much already."

"It's going to be fine," he says again.

"Okay," I say. I'm ready. I'm ready to go. I turn and grab my bag, going through the automatic doors, but stopping in the vestibule to watch Charlie drive away.

It's only when the cruiser is out of sight that I remember that I forgot to make frosting for Charlie's cakes.

I travel so seldom that I irritate everyone in line behind me at security, forgetting to take off my shoes, going through the metal detector with my watch on. The TSA officer rolls his eyes at me, and my face flushes. Actually, the embarrassment feels like a vacation from my slowly building panic.

When I get to the gate, I sit and rifle through my backpack for my Lorazepam. I take two to start off with. I desperately want to go to the bar in the terminal and pound a drink, but if I'm too unsteady on my feet, they won't let me on the plane. _Would that be such a bad thing?_ I consider. But no, no, once I set my mind to do something, I have to follow through. I booked this ticket, and I am going home. I miss Rosalie. I miss my apartment, my corner of the world that isn't colored by ghosts of Renee.

My phone buzzes with a text: **When R U coming back, U hoor?**

It's Rosalie, of course. **ETA 10:30PM**, I text back.

**Gimme yr flight #. I'll track U**.

Bless her. I don't know why it helps so much to know that Rosalie is tracking my flight as it makes its way across the sky, but it does. Maybe because she's thinking of me on the plane, it'll keep the plane in the sky. And at the very least, if something goes wrong, at least someone will know right away. I text her the info right as they start boarding the plane.

My heart is whirring, but my legs don't quite feel like jelly yet, and I step onto the jetway like it's a passageway to the underworld. I think of Edward Cullen again, walking through a jetway like this—it would be the last time he walked anywhere. I try to make each step count, even as my footfalls sound hollow against the jetway floor.

I manage to get my carryon into the overhead without help, and I pull out my sketchbook and pencil before shoving my backpack under the seat in front of me. I lift the window shade and let the light shine on my palm. I try to sketch what I see is there, delicate etching. _I destroyed the Stone One_, I think. _So why am I afraid of a little flight?_

But I know that I am far braver in my dreams than I ever will be in waking life, and I let the panic wash over me, pulling me under, making me gasp for breath.

A mother with a small child is in the seat next to me, and part of me wants to shriek at the woman, "Why would you bring your baby onto this flight? Don't you love her enough to keep her safe?" But the child cheerily gnaws on her chubby fist and pulls on her mother's hair. Maybe it's easier when your mother's arms are around you. Maybe it's easier when you don't know the danger that lurks outside and all around you.

"Daw!" she says, pointing at my sketchpad.

"Excuse me?" I ask the child's mother.

"Daw pony!"

"Dahlia, we don't demand art from strangers," she says, looking at me apologetically.

"No, no, that's all right," I say, laughing a little, glad to be commissioned by the world's tiniest art director. Her comical, tiny bossiness distracts me from my terror.

I draw a cartoonish pony, humanized, wearing overalls and holding a pitchfork.

"Dat's not a pony," she says, reminding a little of my portfolio crits in art school.

I try again on the back of the page. This time I do it as realistically as I can, except I'm not sure I know the difference between a pony and a horse. I make him short and cute and chubby.

"Pony," she says, nodding. "Dah-ya can hab it?"

"Of course, Dahlia," I say, ripping the paper out of my sketchpad.

"Thanks," says Dahlia's mom. "She's got a mind of her own, this one," she says with so much pride and affection that I can't help but feel wistful. I turn back quickly to look through the sketches, all the new ones I did this week in Forks, the impossible cigarette butt, the notes from Alice Cullen. I begin to draw Leah's prickly pear and the rubble remaining of the Stone One. I try to draw the feeling of the obsidian cutting into my hand, but my pencil is as clumsy as primitive caveman's tools. I tuck the sketchpad in the seat pocket and clutch the pencil in my hand, waiting for takeoff.

Dahlia and her mother sing little songs as I squeeze my eyes shut, and I try to get lost in the sounds, focusing on the parallel voices with only a generation holding them apart, focusing on the sweet sounds of breath over vocal cords instead of the angry whirring of engines. They sing "You Are My Sunshine," and Dahlia breaks off at the end of the second verse. "Dat part too sad," she says.

"All right," her mother soothes, "let's just sing the refrain again."

_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away_.

Mother and child sing those words again and again until we're in the air. The flight attendants soon come by with the drink cart, and I rush to force oblivion upon me. As soon as the flight attendant passes me my gin and tonic, I gulp it down so quickly I get brain freeze from the ice cubes. I clutch at my head, not caring how much of a crazy alcoholic I look to Dahlia and her mother, and I feel it, the heaviness in my limbs, the slowing of my breath, and my eyes falling closed as I hear, _Please don't take my sunshine away.

* * *

_

I'm standing on the Bridge Between, exactly where I was before Charlie woke me up. I turn back to look at Jacob.

"Are you sure this is safe?"

_Nothing is ever truly safe, is it?_ he responds in his traditional question form. _But you cannot ignore the summons_.

"I'll … be back soon," I say, not really believing it.

The planks of wood are damp from the spray of the river below, and the coarse rope digs into my palms. I try not to look down. I put one bare foot in front of the other, feeling the unspoken danger of the air beneath me, much like on the jetway. The bridge keeps going higher and higher, and soon I can no longer see Jacob waiting for me on the riverbank below. It's like I'm walking into a cloud. Everything is misty and cool, and the roaring of the river fills my ears.

Soon the bridge levels out and ends on a plain of whiteness. I can't make anything out but brightness. I cautiously step off the bridge only cool stone, and the bridge disappears behind me.

"Isabella, you have heard my call," I hear someone say, the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. It's not quite human. It must be an angel. "Come through the archway."

The archway appears before me, where before there had been nothing but light. I step through, looking around for the source of the beautiful voice. I feel my body pulled down the bright hallway, pillars and sconces appearing as I pass, as if someone is animating this background just one step behind me.

Finally I reach a grand room. I look up to see the ceiling, and I'm not sure if it's the sky overhead through glass, or a ceiling far away and white, or no ceiling at all, looking straight up at the heavens. There is a golden-haired man standing with his back to me, in a gown so bright I have to squint.

"Ah, Isabella. You have done well," he says.

"Are you the Eternal?" I ask.

He laughs lightly. "They call me that here, your silly, superstitious wolves."

My hands clench into fists. "They are _not_ silly."

"Oh please, little archer, do not be upset. I mean it with affection." But there is something in the way he holds up his finger, something in the darkness of his eyes, that gives me pause. As bright as his gown is, his eyes are dark, unreflective.

"Who are you?" I ask. "And why have you summoned me here?"

"So many questions, little Isabella," he says. "Shall we sit?" Immediately two chairs form from the light, not quite as bright as his robes. I sit down cautiously. The chair is overstuffed and enormous, and my feet don't quite reach the floor.

"I'm sitting," I say, looking him square in the face, into those inky eyes.

"Who am I?" he says, making himself comfortable in his chair. His feet reach the ground. "I am the creator of what your wolves call the 'Stone One.'"

"Oh!" I say, wishing I had my weapons. "I'm … I'm sorry about that."

"No, I have summoned you not to punish but to thank you. I created him to protect the land, since I am forbidden to interfere directly in the happenings below. I thought I was doing the right thing, outsmarting the rules. But the rules will be enforced, no matter how you try to outsmart them. He was not under my control—but such is the danger. I cannot breathe life into anything and deny them free will. Then I would be a monster too. He had a killer's nature, choosing to destroy instead of protect. Once I create something, I cannot destroy it myself. This world has been waiting for you, Isabella. I didn't think it was possible to stop him."

"But … but why was _I_ able to stop him?"

The Eternal's laughter sounds like the pealing of tiny, handcrafted bells. "I'm not entirely sure myself, little archer. Blood has powerful properties, especially freely given."

"Can you bring the lost wolves back?" I ask, gripping the armrests of the strange white chair.

"Why would you ask me to do that?"

"I miss them. It's my fault they are gone."

"That's part of what comes of being a creator, Isabella. You can't stop what they do once you call them here. You can't protect them from all danger. You must just sit back and watch them destroy themselves. That is our gift and our burden."

"But … but they _didn't _destroy themselves!" I shout. "Your monster took them! And Leah, Leah was just trying to protect me. Doesn't that count for something?"

"Nothing is stopping you from making another Leah, but she wouldn't be the _same_ Leah, not the one you knew. She might have her memories, but she wouldn't be the same. But that is up to you."

"Are you a god? An angel?" I ask. I can't stop looking at his face, so perfect.

"I suppose you might call me that in your limited human vocabulary. It's close to what I am. I am Eternal. I was here before the land was here, and I will be here long after."

"Do you have a name?" I think of poor Seth, dying because he was named and then unnamed.

"My celestial name cannot be formed with human tongues, but the last little archer called me _James_. And you may do the same."

"Hello, James," I say, holding out my hand.

He laughs again, another tinkling of bells. "You amuse me, little one, with your strange little customs." He presses his hand to mine, and it feels like holding hands with a sunbeam, warm but immaterial. "There, have we done the proper human thing?"

"Yes." I'm still not sure why I've been called here.

"You wonder why I've summoned you here, little one, do you not?"

I nod slowly. "I thought maybe you'd be upset that I destroyed the Stone One."

"And you came anyway? My, that was brave." He smiles, his teeth as bright as his robes, sharp as knives.

"Jacob said you wouldn't harm me. That you just watch."

"That's an approximation of the truth," he says, and I'm not sure what he means. "I do watch, but you don't come from this world, so if I wanted, I could harm you."

I start to get up from my chair, but James stops me. "No, no, dear one, do not fret. I was merely being upfront about that. I have called you here, as I said, to thank you for dispatching of the beast, a product of my own hubris."

"Well, you're welcome," I say, still confused.

"I don't think you understand. I can grant you a boon as long as it is in my power. I wish to grant you a boon in thanks for protecting the land, for fixing my mistake, my failure in judgment."

I know, immediately, what I would wish for, if I could have anything in the world. I want to bring Edward back. He should be alive. He needs to return. If James didn't create him, he can bring him back, can't he?

I'm trying to figure out how I can ask him. I mean, I don't know how to identify Edward, from another world, to this Eternal, who sees me not when I am awake. He could bring back the wrong person.

"I see you puzzling, little maiden," he says, a smile curling on his lips. "You wish to waken someone."

"Yes," I say, even though that's not the language I would choose. But things work differently here.

"You wish to waken the Sleeper," James says matter-of-factly, not asking.

My heart nearly stops. "I do," I whisper.

"Then you must ask me, in those words."

"I … I wish to waken the Sleeper."

He smiles wider and wider like the Cheshire Cat, until the light from his smile is so painfully bright I have to shut my eyes and turn my face away from the light and heat.

* * *

[1] T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men."

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A/N: He hates these cans!**

**Now things get interesting. Thanks for the reviewing love. I'd like to extend a warm welcome to Freed Eagle, PI, who keeps me on my toes. **


	18. Seventeen: She Is Given the First Task

**A/N: Uh, it's 5 AM, and this may not be coherent.**

**Love to Ravelbitches and to Vixen for reccing this story on her blog! And to sshg316 for reccing me on Twilight Enablers! Woo hoo! Maybe one day I'll be a real boy!**

**Warning to algonquinrt: German contained herein.  
**

**Disclaimer: _Who's the white Mormon chick who owns this gigantic Twilight franchise?_ Smeyer!**_** You're damned right.**_

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Seventeen: She Is Given the First Task**

My skin feels like it's blistering under the glare of the Eternal's—of James's—grin. I can feel from the change of temperature on my cheek the moment he lets his lips slide back over his teeth, concealing his troublingly bright smile. When I dare to open my eyes again, James is drumming his fingers lightly on the armrest of his chair.

"So, little archer, little maiden. You wish to awaken the Sleeper."

I nod. For a second I wonder if I should clarify, but I can sense from his piercing gaze that he's able to look directly into my heart and see the face that haunts me day and night, that has haunted me long before he was ever dead.

"You realize that this request will not be easy to grant. I have some power, but not enough for such a complex request. I will need your assistance to get around my … limitations."

"I'm not sure what that means," I say, trying to untangle the strange knot of his facial expression. He's … well, he doesn't seem like he wants to harm me, but I am not convinced he cares one whit about my wellbeing. I'm no fool. He's not being altruistic. He just has to hold up his end of the bargain, because I unwittingly did him a favor. He's beholden to me, and I have a feeling he doesn't like to be beholden to anyone.

"Will … the Sleeper … be whole?" I ask. "Not, you know, not somehow _wrong_?"

"Isabella!" remarks James with something like offense. "What agenda do I have? Why should I lead you down such a path? I will grant you your boon, but I need help."

"Why? I thought you were the Eternal."

"Just because I have been here since before the beginning does not mean I have all the power. My role here is to observe, nothing more. I interfered by creating the Stone One, thinking I could outsmart the rules that have been set down since before the beginning of time. This is my dominion, Isabella, but I must only watch from a distance, never get my hands dirty. Do you think Eternals have it easy? In a moment of weakness, I had pity on the land and wanted to use my power to help. See how I was punished?"

It doesn't seem like he's really been punished, since he's still here in his crazy, faux-IKEA-sensibility stark white palace and my wolf friends are dead. He doesn't seem too broken up about it, either.

Something deep inside me tells me I am not to trust him, but a louder, more persistent part says, _Do whatever you can to bring back Edward Cullen. He did not deserve to die_.

I know full well that it would not change anything. He wouldn't suddenly be in love with me. I know he's engaged, and he and Tanya seemed well suited, at least from what I was able to glean from Internet articles in obscure indie papers following his music career. But she should be happy, shouldn't she?

Oh, forget her—_he_ should be happy. She made him happy, and they are not together now. And that is tragedy enough. Bringing him back so I can continue not having him seems a small price to pay for his happiness. Perhaps it would be reward enough for me knowing that he's _out there_ in this world, stepping on the same soil, feeling the same heat from the same sun. I would feel less empty just knowing we were on the same dimension, the same plane.

I think also of Mrs. Cullen's grief, the phantom pains in her womb, and if I can help this loving mother somehow, be a balm for her, I will do it.

And for me, there always will be a question mark, a _maybe_. A second chance. A possibility that one day he may know who I am, even if he never knows—or, shit, _remembers_—who brought him back to life. Instead of what I have now: a full stop, a bricked-in fireplace, a yellow "No Outlet" street sign.

"So what do you need me to do?" I ask.

He smiles again, but I'm ready this time, turning my head away. Strangely enough, it reminds me of learning to swim, getting the breathing pattern down for the freestyle. Head to the side and breathe, head in the water, head to the side and breathe.

"Amongst the rubble of the creation you call the Stone One is the thing which once gave him life. A thing I fashioned but may not touch again, or else it will lose its power. Find this object and bring it to me."

"What does it look like?"

"Ah, Isabella, there are rules. You will know when you see it, I am sure, the same way some part of you knew that your blood would make him vulnerable. The air of this land fills your lungs, is carried in your bloodstream. You are as much a part of the land as the Bridge, as the Source, even if you come from elsewhere. I trust you will find what you need."

"And the Sleeper?" I ask. "The Sleeper will be awakened?"

"Upon my honor, if I receive all the pieces."

"All the pieces? There is more than one?"

"My dear," says James with an amused clucking of his tongue, "you should know by now that things are never so simple."

He stands up, and I know the meeting is over. The room begins to fade, and I am running to stay ahead of the vanishing marks in the stark white background. I don't want to be erased by whatever is happening here. I run back the way I believe I came, the sconces and pillars again disappearing behind me. The white world a few footfalls behind me seems to shatter into blinding flares of magnesium, and I find myself on the Bridge Between again, with nothing but nothingness behind me. If I stepped off the bridge toward the whiteness again, I'm not sure my feet would hit solid ground.

Confused and dizzy from everything that has just transpired, I slowly make my way back down the Bridge, holding onto the rough rope to steady myself. My knees are shaking. Jacob is standing alert, a sentry, as I come off the last few steps of the Bridge.

_Well?_ Jacob asks.

"That was … different," I say, feeling groggy and slow-witted, my head clouded from the brightness of James's smile, the cloying perfume in the air through the archway.

_I am glad you have returned safely_.

"Me too," I say, crouching down to give him a hug. He lets me scratch him behind his ears and gives my face an affectionate lick.

"Jacob?" I ask.

_Yes, my princess?_

"Why is it that I could see you even before I remembered your name, when I couldn't with the others?"

_Ah, that is a story for another time. _

"Are you different than the others?"

_In most ways the same, but in one important way, quite different._

I sit down with my legs out in front of me, listening to the river roar behind me, my head still full of fog, waiting for Jacob to explain.

_What did the Eternal want?_ He changes the subject instead, looking at me with his head cocked to the side.

"He, well, I guess he wanted to thank me for killing the Stone One. You know like in _The Wizard of Oz_, when Dorothy thinks all the Winkies and flying monkeys are going to hate her for killing the Wicked Witch of the West, and instead they're all cheering and celebrating?"

_I … cannot say that I do. This is part of your history in the other world?_

Right. There is probably no _Wizard of Oz_ here. "It's a famous movie," I try to explain, still thinking fuzzily from my encounter with James.

Jacob looks at me blankly.

"Never mind—you'll have to take my word for it. He was just … grateful instead of upset. He … he wanted to grant me a wish, or something. No, wait, he called it something else."

_A boon?_

"Yes. How did you know?"

_It does not surprise me. The Eternal does not grant wishes. He merely maintains the order. There would be unbalance if he did not grant you a boon for what you have done for the land._

My mind is reeling, thinking about Edward and wondering how it would work. Would time be slowly cranked backwards, the jack-in-the-box coiled up again and pushed back into his metal chamber, and the plane would never have crashed? Would Edward miraculously not get on that plane? Would he be plucked from the water, barely clinging to life, but alive? And would I remember? Would the entire world's memory be wiped for these awful eight days when we believed him dead? Maybe I would wake up last week, and none of this would have happened, and I'd never know, which would mean he'd also never know. But still. I'd have done it. Maybe I could leave a note here, in the dreaming, so at least I would remember, like my name carved in the rock. _I was here. I can see you. I, Isabella Marie Swan, brought him back_.

_My princess?_ Jacob asks, nudging my shoulder with his wet nose.

"Hmm?" I say dreamily, still trying to work out the possibilities. I'm absolutely giddy about being able to save him, if James is a man—an Eternal, I correct myself—of his word.

_What did you ask of the Eternal?_

"I asked him to bring back the boy I've loved forever, to awaken the Sleeper."

_And who is the 'Sleeper'? _

"He … I'm guessing he's the reason I came back here. Yes. That must be why," I say, the realization slowly dawning. "I started dreaming again only after he died. That's why I was returned. This must be my purpose," I say, winding my fingers into the damp grass by the riverbed as if it were the hair of my imaginary lover, soon to return to the living.

I returned to the dreaming around the time Edward Cullen died, before I even knew he was dead. That can't just be coincidence. He brought me back to life in this world, somehow, and maybe that's why I was called to bring him back alive in the waking.

_I thought I was the one you have loved forever_, says Jacob, sounding vulnerable for the first time that I can remember. And not just since returning—in all my memories of my childhood here, Jacob has always seemed strong and secure.

"Oh, Jacob," I sigh. "You know it's not the same thing. You have always been and will always be a part of me."

He lays his head down on his crossed paws, not looking at me.

"I swear I'll never leave you again, no matter what. You are my lifeline in this world."

_I guess I should not be jealous of your affections in your other life. But it was hard when you went away. It wasn't even the danger. A piece of me was missing. And knowing the spot where we had buried you … I visited you every day. Did you know that? Some days I would sneak away from the rest of the pack and sleep on top of your grave, just so I could be near you. _

"Oh, Jacob," I say, my eyes filling with tears. "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

_Did you feel me visit you? _

Do I lie? I don't remember feeling anything. "I don't know," I say finally. "All I know is that I couldn't stop drawing you and the others, but I didn't know why, or who you were."

He turns to look at me dolefully, and I wrap my arms around him and hug him as hard as I can. "Part of me must have felt your absence. And it wasn't anything you were lacking that made me not remember. It wasn't your fault." I think about all the lies I thought when I was a kid, trying to convince myself that I wasn't the reason Renee had left Charlie and me. I never was able to believe it had nothing to do with me. I wonder if Jacob has felt anything like that during my long absence. My chest hurts as if it's collapsing on itself, thinking I've hurt him the way Renee hurt me. "I'm so sorry," I say yet another useless time.

Jacob nods, looking away from me again, and I feel like a total heel when I say, "I need you, Jacob. I need your help."

_You know I cannot deny you anything. What do you require?_

"James—the Eternal—told me I have to find something from the Stone One. He said I'd know it when I saw it. I'm supposed to bring it back to him or something. In order to … waken the Sleeper."

_Tell me about him_, he says with a heavy wolf-sigh.

Now I'm faced with a dilemma. Here is, finally, someone I can tell the whole truth to without worrying about word getting around to Angela or Charlie or the Cullens. I can unburden my soul without fear of repercussion or embarrassment. But I can sense Jacob's pain, his wish to be the center of my life. He is the center of my life _here_, for sure. But I don't carry that with me in the waking. And Edward is with me in both worlds now, always. I can't bear to hurt Jacob any more than I already have.

"I loved him because he was kind to me when he had no reason to be—when he didn't even know who I was. I loved him because he could sometimes see the worth in me when no one else could. I loved him because he always stuck up for the vulnerable. I loved him because when he played music, he was transfigured, transported to another state of consciousness, almost painful to look at, like a celestial being." _Too perfect for this earth_, I think, feeling the hole in my heart again that he is gone, and that he never was mine to lose.

_That sounds like you_, says Jacob.

"What do you mean? Like, you just figure I'm the sort of person who'd obsess over someone with no basis in … anything?"

_No, you sound as though you are describing yourself. You are the singer here, the one who names and creates, who transforms and is transformed._

"I'm nothing like him," I say, wrinkling my brow. "He was bold. He feared nothing, no one's words or bad opinion. I'm afraid of everything and can be cut down with a look."

_That is not the princess I know and serve_, disagrees Jacob.

"You don't see how I am out there," I gesture broadly with my arms.

* * *

A sudden jostling of the plane in turbulence wakes me up in a panic, and I cry out. My voice is loud and embarrassing in the relative quiet of the plane. Dahlia and her mother look over at me. "Bad dweam?" asks Dahlia.

Looking around the plane, I think, _**This part**__ is the bad dream_, wishing I were back on the riverbank with Jacob. I know I'm still on the plane when I'm there, still in danger of plummeting to my death, of burning up when the plane bursts into a fireball on impact from the jet fuel, but at least I'm unaware. I know I should be afraid when I am in the dreaming, but it's like this world melts away. "I don't like to fly," I say quietly. I don't want to give the girl a complex or anything.

"Why?" she asks automatically, the way children her age often do.

"Because …" I stop, trying not to frighten her, carefully considering my response. "I just don't like being in between places. I'd rather be far away, or I'd rather already be home."

She nods, my half-truth believable, sufficient. Her mother gives my hand a comforting squeeze. "It's going to be okay," she says, putting the pieces together—the desperate way I slammed back my drink, my inappropriate, cowardly scream. "It's just a bit of patchy air," she says. Her hand is cool and soft, and I wish it wouldn't be considered weird to clutch her hand for the rest of the flight. Blushing, I mumble, "Thanks," and reluctantly extract my hand from her foreign, maternal grasp. I don't want to take too much. This small gesture is comfort enough, as much as I deserve.

Dahlia is looking at me still. "Mama," she says, "maybe sing her da special song wid da funny words."

Dahlia's mom glances at me and smiles kindly. "Well, Dahlia, sweetheart, not everyone wants songs flung at them by strangers."

Dahlia pouts. "She need it. Sing it."

I want her mom to sing to me. Their singing helped me fall asleep at the beginning of this flight. Maybe it would work again.

Dahlia continues to squirm and command. "Dat lady need it, Mama."

The mom looks at me again, smiling apologetically. "I'm sorry. Are we disturbing you? I'll try to get Dahlia settled so you can get back to sleep."

"No, Mama. Dahlia no seddle. You sing. Sing for lady."

"I'm sorry, dear, I don't know what's gotten into her. I know, I sound like every mother when I say, 'Oh, she's never like this at home.' But I mean it. This is strange, even for her."

"What's this song?" I ask, curious.

"Well, she usually doesn't let anyone else hear it. It's my special lullaby to her."

"And it has funny words?"

"Well, 'funny' to her means German."

"No talk, Mama," Dahlia interrupts, pulling on her mother's sleeve. "Sing! Sing now."

I remember her cool hand on mine, her comforting squeeze, and I have a flash of pressing a lipstick-stained cigarette butt to my cheek. "Would you?" I say hoarsely.

"Would I what?" asks Dahlia's mother.

"Sing the song? I took German," I say, as if that makes it any less weird that I desperately want a mother to sing to me while I am terrified in this plane as it shakes and wobbles, just a few loose bolts away from disintegrating in the air.

"See? Lady want it," says Dahlia smugly.

"Gosh, this is a bit embarrassing," begins Dahlia's mother, but she opens her mouth and, quietly, so as not to disturb the other passengers, starts to sing the most beautiful lilting melody. I don't catch all the German, but her voice is like a tangible thing that cloaks me. I do understand, somewhat, the repeated refrain:

_Schlaf, Kindlein, süße,  
Schlaf nun ein! _

_Sleep, little child, sweet one,  
Just go to sleep! _[1]

I let her voice wash over me, swaddling me, stilling my racing thoughts. _Schlaf, Kindlein, süße_. The movement of the plane now feels like clumsy rocking, reminding me of fishing with Charlie in the boat, falling asleep to the gentle waves. I try to turn to thank her for her song, but I'm already slipping away, back to Jacob, back to my first task.

* * *

He waits for me with twinkling eyes like the star-filled night outside the cold oval pane of the window by my sleeping body.

_Where do we begin?_ he asks, and I slowly lead the way back to the rubble, unsure of what I will find.

* * *

[1] Max Reger, "Mariä Wiegenlied," op. 76 (_Schlichte Weisen_) no. 52 (1911-2). Recording of such can be found at www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=_kLlPOBwZ2M

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A/N: At the Cathcart Towers!**

**I really hope this chapter is semi-coherent. I've been cooped in a car for a very, very long time, and I spent the weekend with puppets and babies, and creepy baby puppets.**

**Reviews are, like, cool n' shit. If you want to speculate, there are threads on Twilighted (linked in my profile) and Ravelry (Ravelbitches know where to find, because they are psychic, awesome, spankalicious ladies). **


	19. Eighteen: She Completes the First Task

**A/N: Why hello! So, I had an epic day of hits yesterday—over 600, which is way over my old record. New readers: where did you come from? Is there some secret rec I don't know about?**

**Big sloppy kisses and assgrabs to Algonquinrt for pimping me out on the Twigasm podcast (which premiered tonight so could not be responsible for yesterday's weird day of hittage)! She is many kinds of awesome, and I'd totally hit that. However, my taint belongs to Mrs. TheKing. It is a fact of life.  
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**Love also to my Ravelbitches and to Twilightzoner for Twi-betaing and general pimping and ego fluffing. She is a fluffer. Make of that what you will.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer's like the wind through my tree. I'm just a fool to believe I have anything she needs. **

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* * *

Eighteen: She Completes the First Task**

I can't hear Jacob's silent footfalls behind me, but I know he is there, following me to the rubble, as he would follow me to the ends of the earth. There is a connection between the two of us that I can feel growing stronger every time I return to the dreaming, as if our hearts are tethered by a cord newly sheathed with myelin, thick and unbreakable. I can't believe I feared him when I first reawakened in this land. He is like my shadow in this world, and maybe in waking as well. I wonder if we mirror each other when I am awake, two sides separated only by the thinnest veil of consciousness.

"We're here," I say as we both regard what remains of the Stone One: pebbles, dust, sand, craggy rocks, and something else, something hidden and magical. What gave this monster life? And will I know it when I see it, as James has promised?

"So, I guess we're supposed to look through here until we find the object, or whatever it is," I say, shrugging. Jacob walks around the pile of rubble slowly, sniffing the perimeter. I pick up the smaller rocks and toss them aside. What am I even looking for? I think of what James said about my blood, rich with oxygen from this land. I'm a part of this place as much as it is a part of me. I kick away the pebbles aimlessly, not caring that I am barefoot. I have no idea what I'm doing.

"Does anything smell … different, Jacob?" I ask, watching him circle the rubble again.

_All I smell is decay, danger, despair._

I don't know if he's pouting and being melodramatic, or if that's truly what the scent of the Stone One's remains brings to his mind. Aware of his hurt that he now knows he isn't the center of my life, I feel tremendous guilt even asking him to help me find the object that will bring Edward back—in whatever form. _No_, I chastise myself. _I have to trust him, as much as I don't think I can_. James promised he would be whole and not "wrong." Not some halfway thing. I have to trust that. I want to believe it so much. I can bring him back. I just have to find this object. Which could be, well, anything.

What gives the Stone One life?

Could it look like the rest of these drab, colorless rocks? Is it some kind of stone as well? Or did he have a life force in him that was flesh and arteries and sinew and tendon? I shudder, imagining what slimy thing I might find, perhaps still pulsing under my touch.

Jacob is picking up rocks in his mouth and dropping them onto a new pile. I wonder what he thinks of tasting the creature that destroyed his friends and family—odd satisfaction? Revulsion? Or does he not think this way at all?

"How are you doing there, Jacob?" I ask, hunching over to pick up one of the larger stones.

_This is a strange task, my princess_.

"I'm sorry. You don't have to help."

_No, I must. How often do you ask anything of me? And so, I must serve you_.

"Please. Please, Jacob, don't say it like that. You have freedom. You have free will. You can do what you please."

_I have free will, but I am tied to you. Your pain is my pain; your longing is my longing_.

Has there ever been a creature so selfless? And so we continue searching through the rubble. I don't tire, but I do get a crick in my neck, and soon I'm telling Jacob that we should take a break.

We walk over to Seth's tree. I put my palm against the trunk and say, "Hi, Seth." I could swear the swaying fronds reach forward to kiss my cheeks in greeting with pink petals soft as silk, delicate as tissue paper. I nod toward the prickly pear cactus and say, "Hey, Leah." I sit down with my back against Seth's tree. Jacob lies down next to me, his head on my knee. I scratch him behind his ears, and his tail thumps happily against the ground. This is all he wants from me, this quiet life, this innocent affection. But I can't even give him this simple thing. First I abandon him, then all my actions here seem to do nothing but take his friends away. And now I ask him to do something that surely will disturb the order of his world. It's so easy to make him happy, so why can't I just do it? I should just sit under this tree and scratch his head forever.

But it's not about me. It's about Edward Cullen. It's about bringing him back so he can live out his life, as by all rights he should, if there were any fairness in the universe. Even forced to observe from afar, I would find joy in each beat of his heart, because it would mean he was alive. It would mean the people around him would no longer be hurting. It would mean I could still dream that one day we would meet and that he might know me. I think of these things and say with fresh determination, "I'm ready to start again." I brush off my dress and head back to the impossibly tall pile of rubble, when I feel a rumbling like an earthquake. What now?

I look around in panic over to Jacob, who shimmers and begins to fade. As I slip back into the waking, I hear him—or perhaps just the wind in the trees—calling, _Goodbye, princess_.

* * *

The plane touches down roughly, and my eyes snap open. I look out the window out at the inky Boston night to make sure that we're on the ground, that the rumbling I feel isn't of the engines falling off of the plane. I see runway lights, feel my full weight straining against the stained and fraying seatbelt as the aircraft brakes hard. I made it. I can't believe I made it. I start to cry with relief. I'm glad I'm rather far back in the plane, because I'll need the time to will the blood back to my legs. I'm not sure I'd be able to stand up right now.

Dahlia's mom is already reaching into her purse to hand me a tissue, just like Angela at Edward's memorial. Moms. There must be a training manual. "Thanks," I say sheepishly.

"Don't worry about it," she says, patting my hand. Dahlia is sleeping in her arms, all floppy like a doll.

"She's wonderful," I say, nodding toward the sleeping child with my head.

"She's my treasure," she says, brushing away some matted curls and kissing her on the forehead.

"Thank you for the song," I say, feeling a little awkward and wistful at this personal motherly display.

"Oh," she says, looking down shyly. "Dahlia can be pushy sometimes."

As the aisle slowly clears, I ask, "Do you need any help?"

She smiles gratefully and motions toward the overhead compartment. "I've got a bag up there, a duffel. Could you help me get to the jetway? The stroller should be waiting, and then my hands will be free again."

I put my sketchpad back in my backpack and stand up slowly, testing out my legs. They'll hold. I put the pack on and take down both my rolling bag and her duffel. I can loop the duffel straps over the stiff plastic handle of my rolling bag, and it's not too hard to get everything over to the jetway. Her duffel reminds me of Renee's, though, and it's hard not to feel cold and empty. Or maybe it's just the chill seeping into the jetway from outside.

I unload the duffel next to the pile of strollers and carseats. "Do you mind holding her a second while I pop up the stroller?" she asks.

"Of course not," I say, holding out my arms. I worry the transfer will wake Dahlia, but she merely sighs and snuggles against my neck. Her relaxed body weighs me down, but it's not a burden. It's a feeling like security, a feeling like love, a feeling that my life _means_ something. My heart aches for reasons I can't describe, and I'm lost, closing my eyes, breathing in her little kid smell, listening to her shallow, little kid breathing. _Tiny lungs_, I think, and finally I hear a voice say, "I'm ready now."

Dahlia's mother has finished unfolding the stroller. "Oh," I say, handing Dahlia back. Dahlia doesn't even twitch as her mother lays her inside. Dahlia's mom takes the stroller handles, and I hand her the bag.

"Nice meeting you," I say, holding out my hand, and she takes it for a moment, smiling kindly at me.

"You have a big heart," she says, and I'm not quite sure what she means as I watch her push the stroller away, the duffel on her arm. I hope someone's waiting to pick her up. The thought of her taking the T with her baby this late at night just seems wrong. Someone should be looking after these two.

They're already far out of sight by the time I walk down the stairs out of the secure area, through the double doors into baggage claim. I'm groggily making my way to ground transportation, hoping the public transportation gods are with me, when I hear someone shriek. "Belarus!"

Rosalie. Rosalie is here. I look around to find her, and she's over by the Dunkin Donuts by one of the luggage carousels. She's the tallest woman here, her golden hair like a beacon guiding me home.

"Rose! Rose! You dirty whore!" I yell, barreling into her. My legs feel like jelly, but she's solid. It's like running into a tree. People are looking over, too tired to be more than mildly shocked at my language. "What are you doing here?"

"I was tracking you, loser. And I thought you might be wobbly from flying, and I figured, what else do I have to do on a Saturday night than wait for my best Bella Bear to come home?" She picks up my rolling bag and says, "We're getting a cab. It's on me, beeyotch," before I can protest.

I loop my arm through hers as we march outside. "Holy _fuck_," I say as the automatic doors slide open and the cold air hits my face.

"Yeah. _Boston, you're my home_,"[1] she sings at the top of her lungs, her breath visible in the biting cold.

Rosalie's song makes me wistful for Fenway and the Sox. Baseball season seems impossibly far away as I look out at the piles of snow, dirty, frozen, melted, and frozen again into slick and ugly shapes like gargoyles or imps. It's like Narnia before the Pevensies appear, when it's always winter but never Christmas. This winter feels endless. Always winter and never baseball season.

Fuck, it's cold. I can't believe how quickly my body has forgotten how to stay warm. How can it be so easy for me to forget everything? My teeth are chattering, and I clutch Rosalie's arm while we get into the taxi line. "Muff up!" Rosalie says, removing her Hello Kitty earmuffs and clapping them over my ears. They help marginally, although I must look stupid. When Rosalie wears them, she looks like she did it on purpose. I'm pretty sure I just look crazy.

"Motherfucker, it's _cold_," I say because my brain isn't working in the arctic wind.

"Almost there, Bellatrix," Rosalie says, rubbing my arms up and down, trying to keep me warm. The next cab is ours, and I shrug off my backpack, gratefully stumbling headfirst into the back while Rosalie and the driver get my crap into the trunk. The air inside is thick and heavy, almost viscous, with incense and artificial vanilla. I'm grateful for the blasting heat, not caring that the cloying air will probably give me a headache.

"Where are we headed?" I ask, my teeth still clenched together from the cold.

Rosalie gives the driver my address. We sit in silence for a while as we both try to warm up. As we get onto Storrow Drive, Rosalie asks, "Okay if I stay over?"

I'm so grateful that I don't have to spend the night alone, but I say, "I don't know," backing away from her slightly. "I'm going to have to prorate the rent, split it between the two of us, plus there's the 12.45% state room tax …"

Rosalie pulls something out of her enormous purse and bops me on the head with it.

"What the hell is _that_?" I ask, rubbing my forehead.

"It's a present!" She tosses me a book, a glossy new paperback. I angle the book toward the side window, trying to make out the picture on the cover using the orange light sweeping over the book as the cab zips dangerously fast past the streetlamps around the curves on Storrow.

"Rosalie? Is this a … naked … Native American? Sitting on a horse?"

"Uh, _no_," Rosalie says, offended. "_Clearly_ he's wearing a _loincloth_." She taps it on the cover, and I feel she's violating this poor noble man's dignity.

"Leave poor Sitting Bull's junk alone," I say, snatching the book out of her reach.

"His name is _Night Thunder_," Rosalie corrects.

"Okay, what the hell is this?"

Rosalie snickers. "A 1L told me that every airport bookstore has at least one romance novel with a mostly nude Native American hero on the cover, sometimes holding a white woman, sometimes on a horse. Sometimes on a horse while holding a white woman. I thought he was making that shit up, so I had to check while I was waiting for your flight to come in. Now I owe him five bucks. Anyway, I thought maybe we could read this out loud to each other tonight."

I lean my head against the cold, smudged window and laugh softly to myself. "That sounds great," I say, yawning widely.

"Listen!" Rosalie takes the book back from me and uses her cell phone as a flashlight to read me the back cover. She puts on her best phone sex, or possibly she-man, voice. "'_Night Thunder swore that she would truly be his bride in every way, if only Rebecca would give herself to him freely and without remorse. But could she sacrifice the only life she'd ever known—and the future she'd always dreamed of—for a deep, satisfying taste of forbidden passion?' _Doesn't that sound _awesome_?"[2] Rosalie fans herself with the book, swooning melodramatically like a Tennessee Williams heroine.

Halfway through the description, I am cackling right along with her. "It does. But is it okay if I replace 'Rebecca' with 'Rosalie'?"

Rose gives me a death glare before busting out laughing and saying, "Of course. Hmm, _Mrs. Rosalie Thunder_," she muses. "Yes, I like the sound of that."

"You just like the sound of the _deep, satisfying taste of forbidden passion_ with _Night Thunder_."

"Hey, I'm not going to look a gift Night Thunder under the … loincloth," she says, as the cab driver coughs uncomfortably. We're in front of my apartment, and Rosalie pays him before he runs back outside to put my bags on the curb.

My apartment smells stale and institutional when I unlock the door and flip on the lights. I think of the home I left behind. _Oh, Charlie_, I think, wondering what he is doing right now. I picture him in front of the TV in the living room, maybe with a dry slice of cake that I've forgotten to frost.

Rosalie brings me out of my funk as she whacks me on the ass with the Night Thunder book. "Come on, sweetcheeks. Let's get this show on the road!" She kicks off her boots and flops on the couch.

Rosalie begins to read as I pull my boots off. I unzip my carryon to get my pajamas, and the smell of Charlie's house comes wafting out. "Oh," I gasp to myself, taking out my pajamas and smelling deeply. If I close my eyes, I'm back in my room with Charlie just down the hallway from me. How could I leave? Why am I not there?

_There's nothing for me in Forks _but_ Charlie_, I remind myself. But that's still a pretty big thing. I listen to Rosalie continue reading as I peel off the clothes smelling heavily of airplane and slip into the pajamas that make me feel small and protected under Charlie's roof.

I join Rosalie on the couch, drawing my knees to my chest. When she finishes the chapter, she passes the book to me, and I read, being sure to replace the heroine's name with Rosalie's. As I reach the end of the chapter, I'm yawning every other word. "I don't think I can get through much more of this tonight," I say, handing the book back to her.

"Of course, Bella Fitzgerald. You must be exhausted. You get in your bed now. I'm on couch duty tonight, me and Night Thunder." I'm about to protest, because I'm so tired that I could probably fall asleep under the kitchen table, but Rosalie pulls me to my feet and points me toward my bed.

I unpack my toiletries with limbs like stone, feeling like I'm about to fall asleep on my feet. But I manage to brush my teeth and get into bed before passing out to the sound of Rosalie's quiet chuckling and the fluttering of cheap paperback pages.

* * *

"You've been busy," I say to Jacob as I open my eyes. While I've been gone, he's moved aside most of the rocks and rubble.

_I am not sure what I am looking for._

"I'm not either," I shrug. "Why don't you take a break? This must have taken a long time."

He sort of nods and shuffles off, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. He looks tired. I scratch him behind the ears as he stretches out. "You should sleep, maybe," I say. "You shouldn't work so hard for me. I'm not worth it."

_What else am I going to do?_ he murmurs. _There is no one else left_. He must be falling asleep, because I know he'd never bring up the lost ones to me that way. Even so, I'm eaten alive by guilt. I stay a long time, patting his head, rubbing his belly, until I can tell from his steady wolfy breathing that he has fallen asleep. I wonder briefly what he dreams about, if he's got a special world where maybe he's not even a wolf. Maybe he's an enchanted prince in his dream world. I wonder how many worlds nest inside each other, if creatures in his world dream in an even smaller world. The thought of it makes me dizzy.

Maybe he doesn't dream at all. I'll have to ask him when he wakes up.

He's cleared away a flat place in the center of the rubble, and as I step inside this circle, I feel a pull in my stomach and fall to my knees. Whatever this object is, it's close now. It's so close that it causes actual physical pain, prickling pulses of something like electricity, heat, fire. I start crawling toward the pain, using my stomach as a compass. It's hard to force myself to move toward the pain, sharp and stabbing now as I near the object, but I can see Edward Cullen's face as he leans over his guitar and loses himself to the music as I go toward the pain. Away from the pain, I picture him, lips blue, frozen in Lake Michigan. It gives me the strength to keep crawling, nearly blind now from the agony. I must be close now.

I feel like I'm going to lose consciousness, but in my delirium I think I can hear Edward's voice say, "Hold on—I can see you." It gives me the strength to make the final push toward the origin of the pain, and I make a desperate grab with my eyes closed. My hands close around something ice cold, cruelly sharp, and heavy. It throbs like something alive, and the minute it touches my skin, I'm screaming from the intensity of the electric pulses. My stomach feels like it's being pierced.

_My princess! My princess!_ Jacob shouts, awake at once and circling around the rubble. _Are you all right?_

I try to answer him, but I can't stop screaming, and his voice fades away. I can no longer feel the coarse rocks under my knees. There's smooth, cold marble now.

I hear laughter, and even though my eyes are still squeezed shut in pain, I can tell from the light filtering through the delicate skin of my eyelids that the light has grown brighter.

"So you have found it, little maiden, as I knew you might."

I force my eyes open and find myself in James' strange white palace again. Here the pain is no longer, and after a few moments to catch my breath, I stand up shakily. I look at my hands and see a dull stone knife. I turn it in my hands, and when the light hits it a certain way, the knife pulses red and is murderously sharp. It looks alive and vicious.

"Here," I say, offering the knife to him.

"No," he says quietly, folding his hands behind his back. "I may not touch it. And this is only the first task."

"So what now?" I ask, exhausted. I can't imagine doing another task.

"You must use the knife."

"I? What am I to do?"

James takes a moment to consider his words. "Part of your heart is hidden away in this world. You must find it, sever it, and bring it to me. You must use the stone knife to do it."

"Where is it hidden?" I ask.

"I cannot tell you. But you already know, deep within yourself, where you have hidden it. You must remember. That is all," he says, dismissing me.

"But wait!" I call, before his world begins to disappear. "How can I complete the second task if I can't even hold the knife without screaming?"

"Does the knife truly cause pain, or do you imagine it does?" he asks.

"I … I don't know," I say, suddenly confused. "If it didn't cause me pain, I wouldn't have been able to find it."

"Maybe. Or maybe you believed you needed the pain to find the knife."

Why would I believe that? "I don't think I can feel that again," I say, shuddering at the memory of the pain, the burning, the sharp pulsing.

"There are no consequences if you decide to withdraw your request," James says, turning to walk away.

In my mind I see Alice and Edward again at the swings, her silent laughter. I see Alice at the memorial, staring directly at me from across the room. I see Alice's haunted face at the grave. I can endure pain for her, for him, for everyone who loves him. "I don't withdraw my request. I wish to awaken the Sleeper," I say again. "I'll endure the pain."

"The pain that may be only in your head, young archer."

I'm pretty sure it's not in my head, but I don't contradict him.

"Hurry back now," he says, and his palace begins to shatter away again like shards of glass. I run with the knife, letting it pull me along. I'm not even looking where I'm going, but I find myself on the Bridge Between, James' land once again a blank slate of blinding light. I clutch the knife in my hand without pain at first, but as each step down the bridge takes me closer to the land, the pain grows.

It's bearable as I step off the bridge onto the springy grass, but as I approach the Citadel again, I have trouble breathing through the stinging in my hand. I have chills all over, cold sweat on my forehead as if I have a fever. I can see Jacob under Seth's tree, waiting for me anxiously, pacing.

"I'm all right!" I wave to him, even as I have to struggle for air. I try to breathe through the pain, to focus on memories of Edward's face transfigured when he was performing. That lessens the pain somewhat. If I can keep my mind focused on something else, maybe I can bear it.

_So will he waken your Sleeper now?_ asks Jacob.

"Not yet," I say, trying to keep my thoughts focused on Edward's face.

Jacob strides toward me and leans his warm body against me. I feel complete, full in my chest, when he is so near.

_What now, then? What is the second task?_

"I have to find my heart."

Jacob is suddenly still and silent, and all I can hear is the wind rustling the pale pink petals of Seth's tree, sounding less like gentle whispering and more like a creature's death rattle.

* * *

[1] Ed Cobb, "Dirty Water," recorded by the Standells in 1966. This song is played in Fenway Park after Red Sox games, but only if the Sox win.

[2] Karen Kay, _Night Thunder's Bride (The Blackfoot Warrior Series)_, Avon, 1999. What? You thought I made up this book?

**

* * *

A/N: It was the Schumachers!**

**You can thank FREED EAGLE, PI, for the "Find the Noble Savage Romance Novel" game. Try it the next time you are in an airport bookstore. You won't be disappointed.**

**Reviewers get me reading **_**Night Thunder's Bride**_** over the phone in a crazy Cockney accent with your name inserted for the character of your choice.**


	20. Nineteen: She Finds Her Heart

**A/N: Oh my shizz, here we are again! Thanks again to Algonquinrt for pimping me out on Twigasm, and Mrs. TheKing and AngstGoddess003 for Twitter-pimpage. And philadelphic for pimping in her glorious story, "La canzone della Bella Cigna." You and your stories all p0wn me. I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy!**

**Love to my Ravelbitches and to Twilightzoner, my Twi-beta.**

**Also, be advised I wrote this while on painkillers, having broken my leg earlier this week. For serious.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns most of the nouns in the dictionary under "T" and "V" and "Edward Cullen." I own a dictionary.**

**

* * *

Nineteen: She Finds Her Heart**

The pain in my hand lessens as an incessant ringing pulls me out of the world. I open my eyes to darkness and fumble around for my phone without looking at who is calling. "Hello?" I say in a voice thick with sleep. I shake my right hand out. I must have been sleeping on it funny, because it's numb, coming back to life slowly and painfully, all prickly with pins and needles.

"Bells? You okay?"

"Dad?" Oh _shit_, I forgot to call him when I got off the plane. I got distracted when Rose surprised me at the airport. "Oh, Dad, I'm home. I'm so sorry I didn't call right away. It slipped my mind." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to reach out and pull them back through the phone. I know Charlie will think I've forgotten about him, and I guess I _did_, but it wasn't because he's forgettable. He was on my mind the whole time, the way he is part of the fabric of my skin. He's always on my mind, my body always feeling his absence. He's there in my macro-world, but in the micro-world of walking through Logan Airport in a daze, I didn't think of pulling out my phone and taking thirty seconds to ease his worries. I am a terrible daughter.

"Rosalie—Rosalie Hale, Dad—she surprised me at the airport, and I was so tired when we got home."

"Oh, sure, Bells, I understand," he says, and I tilt my head and listen to his voice again and again in my memory like a prospector panning for gold. Are there any trace elements of hurt? Or is it just relief?

"I'm _so_ sorry, Dad," I say again, bunching up my blanket in my fist, frustrated and angry with myself.

"Aw, Bells, it's just fine. I know you must be tired. Was the flight okay?"

"Yeah, I met a nice little girl named Dahlia," I babble, yawning.

"That's my Bells, always making friends," he says, and I can just see him bobbing his head while he's saying it. I feel doubly guilty that he is trying to soothe me, when I'm the one who's upset him. It's not enough that I've made him worry that I'm all right; I've made him think that he's forgettable, an afterthought, when he is an indelible mark on my skin, an invisible tattoo.

I look at the clock—3:00 AM. I can hear Rose snoring softly from the couch, and as my eyes adjust to the light, I see that she's fallen asleep with Night Thunder on her face. I make a mental note to mock her in the morning for sleeping with her nose nestled firmly beneath Night Thunder's loincloth.

"Just midnight there, huh, Dad?" I ask.

"Yep," he says, and I know he is stretching, arching his back the way he always does before he heads up to bed. "House is real quiet again."

"I'm sorry," I half-whisper. My heart hurts. I wish I were there.

"I'm fine, Bells. Don't you worry about me. I'm going to go fishing tomorrow."

"Well, you'd better get to bed then," I say as cheerfully as I can. "Hope they're biting tomorrow."

"You know me, kid. They can't resist the lure of Chief Swan," he says, chuckling.

"Of course they can't. No willpower, those fish. Goodnight, Dad," I say, yawning again. "Miss you already."

There's a long pause, and I think I've lost the connection until I hear Charlie say quietly, "You too, kid."

He hangs up, and it's just my heartbeat, the hum of the refrigerator, and Rose's snoring keeping me company in the dead of night. I flop over onto my side under the blankets, and my right hand begins to tingle again even before I'm asleep.

* * *

_Your heart?_ asks Jacob in a steady, measured tone.

"He said I've hidden part of it here, in this world," I say. My speech is labored as I try to speak through the pain in my hand. I focus on Edward Cullen's face, his smile in the parking lot, his bandaged hand after defending his sister. The pain is dulled, like a piece of glass battered and smoothed by the relentless ocean until it is a beautiful piece of sea glass. "I'm … I'm supposed to sever it with the knife and bring it to him."

_Oh_, says Jacob. I notice he hasn't moved an inch, even when I disappeared to answer Charlie's call. He's stiff by my side, ears back, not looking at me.

"Do you know where it might be? Where I might have hidden it?"

Jacob is silent and still.

"I'm sorry, Jacob. I shouldn't even ask you."

I let the knife slip out of my fingers onto the grass and immediately feel relief in my whole body. I can feel the relief travel through Jacob's body by my side as well. I walk back to Seth's tree and lean against it. Jacob follows me, and I pat him on the head. He lies down again as he did earlier, his head on my knee, and I scratch behind his ears. "Sweet Jacob," I murmur. "You're my friend," I say, stroking the short hair on his face with the back of my hand.

_You are my princess_, he says in a sleepy, satisfied rumble that vibrates all the way through my stomach.

We sit for a long time as I pat him. I want to spend time with him, quiet, together time, appreciating him. I grab handfuls of his fur and lean down, sniffing his wolfy, woodsy smell, and my pulse slows as we begin to breathe as one. He is peace here, warmth, security, identity. He remembered who I was when I had forgotten. I think of all the years he slept where I had been buried, trying to feel near me, remembering me while my dream body remained below. Where did I go?

I try to remember all those years when I did not return to this land but my dream-corpse remained. I know it's been only about a week since I've been back (has it really been only a week since we lost Edward Cullen, since my world ended?), but now I barely remember the years of blankness, brain static. Even with the sorrow of losing Seth and Leah and my terror facing down the Stone One, I am glad to be back here. It's dark and confusing and frightening, but it's also kind of wonderful. I am confident and powerful here, graceful, strong, courageous, and vital to the land's survival. The land needs me. Jacob needs me. I continue to stroke the coarse fur, humming a little as Jacob's breathing slows.

"What do you dream about?" I ask suddenly, stopping my humming.

_Dream? _he asks, half-asleep.

"What happens when you sleep? Do you dream?"

_I am not sure. It feels as though I return to the others, my lost brethren, the one mind with which we think. Or thought_, he corrects. After all, as he reminded me, he is the only one left.

"Do you feel, you know, _yourself_ when you are there, or are you just part of a whole, like a cell in an organism?" As I ask him, I wonder myself what it's like to be a cell. Does it know it is only a cell? Does it feel like an individual, unaware that it helps make up something bigger, greater? Am I just a cell myself? Would I even know if I were part of something … greater? My mind is spinning as I contemplate this, wondering if I only believe I am an individual with choices when in reality I'm only a minuscule part serving some sort of larger being. Jacob interrupts my train of thought before I can start to panic at my feeling of insignificance.

_To be honest, my princess, I do not really think of it in such … concrete ways. I just let myself be. I live in the history, our history, with our fallen, with the ones not yet born. They live around me. We all just __**are**__. _

"Is it peaceful to think that way?"

_It is restful. It is restorative._

"Jacob, why _is_ it that I could see you when I didn't remember your name?"

_I want you to remember that for yourself_, he says.

"But you know why."

_Yes_.

I curl up next to him on the ground, scratching his head. I let my hand rest against his side. His ribs feel so delicate and surprisingly fragile as his skin and fur slide between his bones and my hand as he breathes. I'm pretty sure he's asleep now, his mind in his greater wolf consciousness. I watch my hand on his side rise and fall, rise and fall.

I'm not tired in this land, but something about the rhythm of his breathing, his pulse fluttering under his warm skin, puts me in something like a trance. I rest my head against his side, my head now rising and falling with the tide of his breath, and the world slips away.

_I am Princess Izzy. I am brave and strong. Nothing scares me. I march in my pretty dress around my castle. Once I saw a spider and almost screamed, but then I remembered that I am the Princess. I told the spider that this was my land and the spider was not to frighten anyone. The spider apologized and did a little dance for me. He spun a little top hat out of spider silk and floated in the air, and I laughed and clapped my hands. I twirled around and around in my pretty dress until I was dizzy. Dizzy Izzy, Dizzy Izzy, Dizzy Izzy!_

_I come here all the time. It is my secret place. No one knows about it, not Mommy or Daddy or the other kids at school. I can do things here that I can't do anywhere else. I can make things appear or disappear. I can close my eyes and build things. There's a stream, and I am never tired._

_I'm the only one here, the only one like me. The only little girl. Maybe I shouldn't have made the spider go away. _

_I would like a friend._

_Maybe that's asking too much. I can do so much here. "Don't be greedy," Mommy says sometimes when I ask for more dessert, and her eyes look like beetles. I don't want to be greedy._

_I'm looking into the stream, and I can see my face in the water, and the face in the water talks back to me!_

"_Izzy, Izzy," she says in her watery voice, "I know you are lonely, because I am you." _

_And I say, "What can I do?"_

_She says, "Reach in here," and she puts her hand on her chest. And since she is me, I do the same thing. My fingers go inside my chest, and it hurts, but only a little, like when Daddy took that splinter out of my toe._

_She says, "Reach inside and keep on pulling," and because she is me, I do. I look at my hands and see a small purple rock, like a kind of jewel. _

_She says, "Now whisper your wish to your hands. Cup them, like this." And she shows me. And because she is me, I'm already doing it._

_I whisper to my hands, "I want a friend. Send me a friend."_

"_Squeeze your hands together," she says as she does it, and because she is me, my hands are already pressed together. My insides hurt a little, and there is a rumbling like I am holding the world in my hands and it's breaking. I feel like I'm going to fall down, but I don't know if the shaking I feel is in my hands or under my feet. Is the world in my hands or am I inside the world?_

_I fall down on my bottom, but it doesn't hurt because the grass is always soft here. I open my hands, and they are empty. But I can hear something beating. I hear something little crying, a little scared baby kind of sound. Something that needs help, that is looking for its mommy. I crawl around toward the noise, the quiet crying. "Don't be sad," I say, and I reach under a bush because I know the baby thing is under there._

_Under the bush is something warm and furry, and it licks my hand. I pull it out, and I can hear the beating louder now. It's a little wolf cub, a puffball, so cute that I want to squeal and jump up and down. I hug him to my chest, and my heart matches the beating I hear all around me. Everything is beating, like I am locked inside a grandfather clock._

"_You are beautiful, my little furry wolfy thing," I say to the baby wolfy in my hands. "I love you. My name is Izzy. What is your name?"_

_He looks at me with big, wide eyes, clear like the water in the stream where the other me is. I can see me in his eyes, like I saw the girl in the stream. I expect him to bark or howl or do something else that is wolfy. _

_But he doesn't. He doesn't open his little mouth at all. I just hear a voice in my head. __**You must name me**__, the voice says. Was that my little wolfy friend who spoke?_

"_Is that you talking, little wolf?" I ask the little furry baby in my hands._

_**Yes. **_

"_I have to give you a name?"_

_**That is why you are here**__, he says, and I don't understand. I thought I was here because … well, this is where I go. This is my special place._

"_Where did you come from, little wolfy?" I ask my cupped hands._

_**I have always existed with the other ones, but not in this body. But you called me here. And now you must name me**__._

"_I'm not good with names," I say, thinking hard and wrinkling my eyebrows together. I don't like naming my dolls. They just stare at me._

_**I will not just stare at you**__, the little wolfy says._

"_Can you read my mind?" I ask._

_**I know what you think sometimes, because part of you is in me**__, he says._

"_If part of me is in you, maybe I already know what your name is."_

_**Maybe **_**you**_** do, but I do not**__._

"_Let me think," I say, and I sit up with him in my lap. He opens his mouth and nips at my hands with his little baby teeth. "You are a little monster," I say, laughing and rubbing his belly. He has a really cute little wheezy wolfy laugh. He must be ticklish._

_And then the name comes to me like the girl in the water is talking to me again. "Jacob," I say. "Your name is Jacob."_

_**Of course it is. Thank you, my princess.**__ And he grows right in front of me and is suddenly as big as I am, still with a little wolfy baby face, but not so breakable. I stand up and chase him, and he turns around and chases me, and we fall and tumble down a grassy hill, laughing and laughing the whole way to the bottom. I screech in that loud voice that makes Mommy say, "Use your indoor voice, Izzy," but here it doesn't matter. Jacob, my special wolfy wolf, laughs too, that same wheezy laugh that I can feel all around me like a fuzzy blanket._

"_I love you, Jacob," I say, touching noses with him. I won't be lonely here anymore. He is my Jacob. _

A sudden snuffly break in Jacob's breathing wakes me up from … well it wasn't a dream, but whatever it was, this living memory. I gaze at him sleeping there so peacefully.

I look at my cupped hands. I touch my hands to my chest.

I touch one hand to my chest while resting the other on Jacob's side.

Our hearts beat as one. Exactly with the same beat.

Oh god. Oh god, no. This can't be right.

I crawl to where I've dropped the knife in the grass and pick it up again. I mentally prepare myself for the painful electrical jolts, but the sting as my hand wraps around the knife's handle still surprises me, making me gasp. Just to confirm my fears, I hold the knife near Jacob. It begins to hum and whirr, and the stone transforms into that strange, red, glass-like substance, appearing sharper, deadlier.

Oh god, no.

I won't do it. I won't! I toss the knife away from me. I'm crying, thinking, _Don't make me choose. You know I can't do that_.

There's a rustling in the woods, and I look up and see something like the shadow of a man, or a beast. I'm not sure. I think I see a gray peacoat, but … no, that's impossible. I pick up the knife again and run after the shadow, which I'm now not sure if I've really seen.

I'm led to the Bridge Between.

"James!" I shout. "James! I request entry to your kingdom."

I can feel the Bridge vibrate, and I know in my heart that the gate is open. I run across the damp wood, but I do not slip.

I'm clutching the knife in my hand until my fingernails turn white. "James!" I shout as I reach the other side. I run as fast as I can, flying under the arch, the columns and sconces that appear as I run past.

"Isabella," James says coolly as I reach the room with the chairs. "Have you brought me your heart, then?"

"I found it. I know where it is," I say breathlessly. "But I can't. That's impossible. You … you _can't_ be asking me to …" I'm crying too hard to finish what I'm saying.

"Dear one," he says, and a shiver runs down my spine, "you knew that your request would come at a high price. It's not for my pleasure; there are rules that even we Eternals must hold to. You are asking for something large. These are the items required."

"How do I know that you are right?"

"Why, whatever do you mean, Isabella?"

"How do I know you are telling the truth?"

"Isabella, what reason have I to lie to you? My job is to watch, to observe, not to interfere. As you know, I once interfered in this world out of pity, and I was punished. You delivered me from that, and so I owe you a favor, but still, there are costs to everything."

"Show me I can trust you. _Show me_," I hiss.

James chuckles. "Oh, little maiden, you are so fierce. You are a good guardian for this land."

"Show _him_ to me," I demand. "Show me you can do this."

"Hmm," says James. "Let me see." He strokes his chin thoughtfully and whirls his hands around in the air.

There's some smoke that begins to swirl in the corner and starts to take shape. I hear a shrill, chirping sound to the side that I choose to ignore. I'm staring at the smoke, hoping to see a familiar form. Could it be? I see the hair, the beautiful hands. The chirping won't stop, and I look at my hand, and there is a silver cricket that's just landed there, chirping. "Be quiet," I say sternly to the cricket, but it's some sort of mechanical thing, and it won't stop. I'm trying to look at the swirly smoke, desperately trying to make out Edward's face, but now the cricket stings my hand as it chirps. _Crickets don't even sting_, I think crabbily, trying to crush the thing in my hand, but the metal doesn't give under the pressure of my squeezed fist. The mechanical thing just stings me more. The chirping won't stop. The chirping is regular, like breathing, and I cannot, for the life of me, focus on the swirling, almost-Edward shape.

* * *

I am pulled into consciousness that I do not want. My eyes pop open in the darkness, and I hear it again, the shrill chirping. I'm crying, because I was so _close_. I could almost see him. Edward would have formed in the corner if not for that distracting chirp. _Chirrup!_ I hear again, but I'm awake.

It's the fucking smoke detector. The battery must be dying. I sit up in bed, wiping away my tears, and every twenty seconds or so, the smoke detector chirps again. Motherfucker, I don't have time for this. I almost _saw him_. I rip the covers off me, look for the stepladder in the closet, and climb up to the smoke detector. I have to go on the highest step and stand on my toes and reach my fingers out so far that I think the edges of my soul reach beyond the fingertips to twist down the detector and take out the nine-volt battery in the back. I toss the dying battery onto the blanket Rosalie has kicked onto the floor in her sleep, put the detector back on the ceiling, and climb down the stepladder. I shove the ladder into the closet and crawl back into bed, praying that I'll wake up again where we left off in James' palace, with the swirling, dancing smoke. _Please_, I whisper to myself, tears streaming out of the corners of my eyes. _Please, please, please_, I beg to no one in particular.

I'm still whispering, _Please, please, please_, as I open my eyes in a stark, white place. Good. I must still be in James' palace. I look in the corner for the smoke, and it's just ordinary smoke again, dissipating into a frustrating haze.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Your mind wasn't focused," he says. "I could not bring him forth before you disappeared."

"Can you do it now?"

"Isabella, I'm afraid that kind of magic works only once. I don't have infinite power. But you saw what you wanted, did you not?"

I'm not sure. I'm not sure what I saw, but I can hear Edward's voice like a great wind blowing my hair and giving me his message: _Trust_.

"You must leave here now," says James. "Remember, it is always your choice. You may refuse the boon."

"No," I say, feeling the wind in my hair. "I do not refuse. The boon remains unchanged." There's a chance. There's a chance that he's right. I try to remember the swirling smoke. Yes. Yes, I am fairly certain I saw the peacoat, the hair, the outline of long, beautiful fingers, the ones I remember feeling on my back, forming Clapton chords on my trembling skin through velvet. It was him. I can ease the pain of so many by losing my biggest comfort here. The cost is dear to me, but so insignificant to the others whose lives were thrown into turmoil the moment Edward died.

It's not for me, I remind myself. It's for the others. What does my happiness matter?

_But what about Jacob's happiness?_ a part of my brain demands.

"I don't know!" I cry out loud.

James looks embarrassed at my outburst. "It would be best if you left now," he says almost gently. The world begins to shatter, and I run with the knife in my hand back the way I came, just barely making it back to the Bridge before his world explodes into white, into void.

I stand on the top of the Bridge, the clouds swirling below, reminding me of the almost-Edward I saw in the corner of James' hall.

What am I going to do?

My happiness, or the happiness of the Cullens, of everyone who loved Edward? And the happiness of Edward himself? He deserves to live out his life. He shouldn't have been taken from us.

What is my happiness? It is just in this world, my dreaming. Jacob isn't real. But now I picture the tiny, helpless cub in my cupped hands, asking me to name him. I feel our hearts beating at the same time, two halves of the same heart.

My happiness? Or everyone else's?

How can I possibly choose?

With a heavy heart, an aching heart that feels it may soon lose a part of itself, I walk slowly back to the land.

I look at the knife in my hand, trying to picture the act. How could I possibly … ? No, it is unthinkable. _Unthinkable_.

I am selfish, after all, a selfish creature. I will not harm him. I cannot. I choose _my_ happiness. _Jacob's_ happiness.

_Trust_, the wind seems to say again as it ruffles my hair. And now I don't know again.

The knife hums in my hand, and I walk back to Jacob, who still sleeps peacefully under Seth's tree.

_He is my Jacob_, I remind myself. _I won't be lonely here anymore. He is my Jacob_.

I clutch the knife in my hand and watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, his breaths lined up with mine. We breathe as one; our hearts pump blood through our bodies in synchronized beats.

I'm frozen, trapped as if between two panels of glass, as the knife hums in counterpoint to the tide of Jacob's breath, and all the while, the wind blows through Seth's tree. In my head I hear, _Trust_, but the blossoms fall down like tears as Seth's tree slowly is stripped bare, the remaining branches like stark, bleached bones against the clear, indifferent sky.

**

* * *

A/N: The flowers were taller in the older photograph! Raymond Burr!**

**Not sure what to say in this closing note except thank you for reading. Your reviews help me through the suck that is hobbling around on crutches and awaiting surgery.**

**Also, if you are looking for a fuckawesome, well-written, dark story, check out Grendelsmother's "Such Fruits as These," a mostly-canon take of Rosalie's death and change, and her revenge on her attackers. I have it linked in my favorites. It is dark and Victorian horror on one side, and also about Rosalie learning to live and heal in her new vampire form, to deal with the hatred in her heart, the loss of trust resulting from her violent death. Even if you think you don't like Rosalie, check the story out. Grendelsmother is the honorary mayor of my uterus. (But Mrs. TheKing owns my taint.)**


	21. Twenty: She Makes Her Decision

**A/N: Greetings from the Land of Percocet! I had surgery this week, and my time in the hospital sucked major donkey balls. Peeing in a bedpan? Not as fun as it sounds, and it doesn't sound very fun. If anyone was ever deserving a taintpunch, it's the doctor on call when my morphine drip wasn't helping my pain and I was crying for two hours straight because I thought my leg would never stop hurting. But everything is okay now that I am home in my Percocet haze. And I will never take for granted peeing on a toilet again. That, my friends, is autonomy.**

**Thanks to my Ravelbitches, my pimps, my heroes, and Kelly Clarkson, just because.**

**Special message for Algonquinrt: THIS CHAPTER IS NOT WUSSPERV APPROVED. That goes for the rest of you wusspervs too. Look away, baby, look away.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, sitting in a tree, L-I-T-I-G-A-T-I-N-G. First comes Cease and Desist, then comes Lawsuit, then comes naked Feisty wearing a barrel because SM's sued her pants off.**

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* * *

Twenty: She Makes Her Decision**

Jacob stirs, and I hide the knife behind my back.

_My princess, you are back_, he says, and his voice in my head sounds a little … sad, maybe? Disappointed?

"Hi, Jacob," I say, trying to sound normal.

_What is it?_ he asks, getting slowly, gingerly, to his feet, as if his joints ache. He shakes the petals from Seth's tree off of himself, his fur going in two directions at once. It's such a puppy-like gesture, but there's such solemnity and fatigue about him that he seems immeasurably older to me.

I can't keep up the façade. I start to tear up. "Oh, Jacob," I whisper.

He seems to understand right away. _So you know, now, why you could see me_.

I nod. "My heart. Part of it is in you." I lay my free palm on my chest, feeling the heart underneath my fingertips quivering in fear for its mate beating away in the faithful vessel—_no_, I correct myself, _not a fucking vessel, but my __**friend**__—_across from me.

_I am glad you remember_, he says simply. _I wanted you to remember on your own._

"It was being so close with you, laying my head on your side," I say, unable to look him in the face. I close my eyes. "I could feel your breath, your pulse, and it was like your memories flowed through me. I was a child again, your Princess Izzy."

_I miss her_, he says.

"I couldn't stay that way forever, you know."

_I know. _

"I had to grow up. But I'm sorry I went away for so long, that you didn't see me change. I'm sorry we lost so much time. I'm sorry we're strangers to each other now."

_It was what you wanted, my princess. I could not say no to you._

The knife in my hand is throbbing. "But, Jacob," I say, hardly daring to let the air escape my lungs, "I can't do it. I won't." And the knife slips from my fingers and clatters onto a flat rock behind me.

Jacob looks sternly at me. _I serve you, my princess. Do what you must_. He stands his ground, looking me squarely in the face, his eyes filled with determination and not even a shred of fear.

"I won't!" I say, backing away from him, stepping on the knife and cutting my own foot. The pain is excruciating, and I fall onto my side, holding my foot and gasping, watching the blood ooze, thick and nearly black as it mixes with the dirt on the sole of my foot. It's as if there is venom in the knife. This isn't like cutting my hand with the obsidian. This knife, this thing which gave the Stone One life, it is an evil object. I can feel it. I can feel the hatred coursing through my blood. I don't want it to reach my heart.

I run for the stream, the Source, limping, trailing blood behind me. Jacob follows at a comfortable distance, silent. I reach the water's edge and plunge my foot in. The stream is ice-cold, pure, numbing. When I pull my foot out, there's a trickle of blood from the cut, scarlet now, no longer like tar. Is the poison gone from my blood?

"Am I all right, Jacob? Is there venom in me?"

Jacob comes over and sniffs my foot, giving it a careful lick, closing the wound. _I think your blood is clean_.

"What am I going to do?" I ask myself as much as I ask him.

_You will be fine. There is no venom. You will live_.

"You know that's not what I meant, Jacob."

He is silent. I put my arm around him, and we lean, heads together, listening to the rushing water. I think of when he pushed me in here before I remembered, when I was afraid of him, when he told me he could not promise not to kill me.

_What do you want me to say, my princess?_

"Bella," I say. "My name is Bella. I am no princess. I don't deserve to be a princess. I'm just … Bella. And that's all I'll ever be."

_Do not speak that way_, says Jacob. _I can bear many things, but not that. Please let me call you my princess. It is the one thing that has not changed. I need this._

He's never asked me for anything, at least as far as I can remember, and I think again how selfish I am, how selfish for running away from this land, selfish for being too afraid to offer myself in earnest to the Stone One in exchange for Seth, selfish for considering cutting the heart out of Jacob, and now, even now, selfish for wanting him to call me Bella. I would strip him of every comfort, the last comfort left to him.

"Of course, Jacob. I'm sorry. I am your princess."

I let my foot dangle in the cold water again, and even though Jacob has said my blood is clean, I feel like I am poison. I am poison because I know deep down I would trade Jacob's life for Edward's in a heartbeat. As much as I tell myself it's for Alice and Mrs. Cullen and his fiancée, deep down I know it's because of me. Because _I_ need him alive. And for what? So he can continue to know I don't exist? Because I need him for my stupid fantasy world where maybe one day he'll know who I really am?

In a heartbeat, in one beat of the heart we share, I'd give up Jacob forever for Edward. I would give it up _if_ I didn't have to do the act myself. And that makes me worse than a traitor; it makes me a coward. And Jacob knows I'd give him up. I can tell. He knows the darkest things that I feel because we share the same heart.

_Let us walk back_, he says, looking toward my foot. _I think you are all right now. It was not a deep cut_. And resignedly, head down, he leads me back to the courtyard, to Seth's tree, to Leah's prickly pear cactus.

And to the stone knife, which glimmers in the light streaming through the branches of Seth's tree, stripped completely bare by the wind.

* * *

A bright ray of sunlight falls across my eyes through the blinds, and I am lit awake like a candle. My foot aches, but when I sit up to examine it, nothing seems to be wrong. A heaviness in my heart makes it hard to breathe. Oh, Jacob. What am I going to do?

I rub the sleep out of my eyes and try to get my bearings. I hear Rosalie still snoring on the couch, her face buried under her precious Night Thunder's muscled thighs. It is Sunday. A week ago, Rosalie slept here, keeping me company during my vigil, my personal agony in the garden, before I flew back to Forks. And she is here now, to celebrate my return. There was a part of me that didn't believe I'd make it back here. And she waited for me on both sides of the journey, not even asking why, exactly, I was going home.

I take a shower, glad to be back in my familiar bathroom, but feeling sad, missing the cracked soapdish, the security of the smallness of the bathroom in Forks. I put my hand on the cold, industrial tile of the impersonal apartment bathroom, half-wishing I were a reflection, that my shadow-hand could meet my real hand in the bathroom in my father's house in Forks. I wouldn't mind being only a reflection if my other self could be there with Charlie. I close my eyes as the water streams down my hair, washing the smell of airplane and panic off of me. With my eyes closed, I picture myself in the bathroom of Charlie's house. When I open my eyes again, my reality is jostled; I am startled to find myself back in my shower in Boston. Part of me feels cheated that I am not still in Washington State, not still under my father's roof. When I close my eyes I am still there. Why can't I make the image stay when I open my eyes, make it reality?

I wash my hair numbly, trying to choke back tears. I'm not sure why I am so sad. Is it because of Jacob? Is it because I miss Charlie? Is it because I fear I'll never see Charlie again? Is it because I don't want to accept that Edward Cullen truly is dead?

I let the streams of water wash the shampoo out of my hair, my arms folded across my torso, water pooling where my hands are tucked inside my elbows. I feel like a tree in a sudden summer downpour, immobile, unchanging, unfeeling. I want not to feel. I'm feeling too much. I'm sad about everything. I'm missing everything, everybody. I think of Seth's tree and imagine myself cocooned inside the trunk, enveloped in its delicate willow bark. I'd be safe there, maybe. I'm so tired of feeling.

I don't want Rose to end up with a cold shower, so I stop my thoughts long enough to shut off the water, shivering already from the cold air creeping around the frosted-glass window. She's still softly snoring when I come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and begins to stir only once I've pulled on my longjohns and several layers of clothing.

"Good morning, loser," she says cheerily, once she's tossed Night Thunder to the coffee table, stretching her arms languorously over her head.

"Night Thunder rode you all night, did he?" I ask, bending over and twisting the damp towel into a turban around my dripping hair. "He sat on your face pretty hard," I add, straightening up and jumping away just in time to miss Rosalie's hand attempting to swat my ass.

"You're just jealous," sniffs Rosalie, tightening the ponytail holder in her hair. "You're jealous Night Thunder didn't choose _you_. He's such a thoughtful lover, and he has days-of-the-week loincloths."

Thank god for Rosalie. I'm snickering, and that morose girl in the shower already is slipping back into the shadows. _This_ is me, this snickering girl, the one Rosalie brings out; _this_ is Bella Swan.

So why do I still feel this dread in my chest? A twinge in my foot brings me back. _Jacob. What will happen to Jacob?_

"Trader Joe's?" Rosalie asks, untangling her iPod headphones and putting them back in her bag.

"But it's not Saturday," I say.

Rosalie shrugs. "You weren't here yesterday. Being with the Bellaband is more important than going on the proper day of the week."

"Sure." To be honest, I did feel a twinge yesterday morning, knowing I was missing our weekly ritual. "Are you going to shower first?"

"Nah, they like me ripe there," says Rosalie, going to the bathroom to splash some water on her face.

We both gird ourselves to face the bitter cold, and despite the chill that assaults us as we exit the building, I feel warm in my heart as I march down the icy sidewalk next to my friend Rosalie. It's good to be back.

We walk down Boylston Street, and as the wind numbs my cheeks and I squint my eyes against sand and salt from the sidewalk blasting against my face, I feel that this place, too, is my home. The Prudential Building is a friendly, familiar giant, and I am tempted to wave at it as we head inside to the TJ's. But I see a Boston Police cruiser drive by, and suddenly my heart is split in two again, one piece aching three thousand miles away by Charlie's side. I'm not sure if the part of my heart with him is trying to find its way back to Boston, or if the part in me now is trying to jump out of my chest to join its mate in Forks. I try to focus on Rosalie's brightness, but it's hard when half of me feels as though it's missing.

I sigh because I will never have everyone I love in the same place at once. The world is too wide, my body too small, too finite. I blink back my tears and try to make the most of my afternoon with Rosalie, my vibrant Rosalie.

Rosie and I head to the back corner with the samples, and I drink paper thimble after paper thimble of organic limeade while she loads up on coffee. Today the pleated cups are filled with tamari-flavored almonds, so we each take about five cups of them and tip them back like they are tequila shots. It's almost like our usual Saturday ritual, except my body knows that it's Sunday. It's not the same, and I feel cheated, somehow.

As we go up the escalator to head back to street level, Rosalie asks, "So, Bellapotamus, do you want to do anything today?"

I want to stay by her and borrow her light to avoid this feeling of being split in two with everyone I love spread far and wide like shrapnel after an explosion. But something tells me I need to be alone. I can't avoid my head forever. I'm going to find something important today.

"I think I need to be by myself for a bit," I say, watching my feet so they don't get eaten by the top of the escalator.

"That's cool," she says, zipping up her retro ski jacket before we exit into the wind tunnel of Boylston Street again. "I've got a shit-ton of reading to do, but you know where to find me." She hugs me when we're outside, and I slip on the ice, my balance thrown off by her embrace. But Rosalie is solid like a tree, just as she was in baggage claim last night, and she rights me before I can fall to my knees. "Easy there, Bellia Comaneci," she says, holding tight to my elbows.

"I'm fine," I say, straightening up and looking around to see if any passersby are laughing at my klutziness. "Thanks."

"Anytime, whore," she says, cheerfully patting me on both cheeks. She's used to being my permanent spotter. Sometimes I think she watches me like a concerned mother, looking out for possible sharp corners or slippery surfaces, trying to predict where next I might fall. She's usually there before I hurt myself, firm arms catching me, setting me on my feet.

I watch as she heads back toward Mass Ave. I know her afternoon will be filled with reading and taking notes in the warm, cozy library at her law school. I've visited her out there with Hostess cupcakes smuggled in my backpack to get her through some late-night study sessions, trying my best to look casual so the library guards won't search my bag before I can deliver the goods. When I go, it's nice to be back in the womb of academia and gothic architecture again, but it's a false sense of security because I know I don't truly belong. The dark, musty books on the shelves stare down at me severely, and I can almost hear them hiss, _Imposter_.

Once Rosie disappears around the corner, I just start walking. I'm not sure where I'm headed, but I know I need to go somewhere. I let my feet lead the way, my feet already numb with cold. I reach up to feel my damp hair peeking out from under my knit cap, and my hair is frozen into icy branches. They don't even feel like part of my body. I know hair's not living, but it still is disconcerting to feel them this … separate from me. I'm not going to touch my frozen hair any longer. I already have such a bad feeling in my stomach.

I walk, just gazing at my feet, and I stop when I think I hear organ music. I look up, and I'm at a church. No, not just _a_ church, but _the_ church.

It was a day like today, and I was still a student at Longfellow, a junior, and I was having one of those dreamy days where I just wanted to wander. I'd overslept and missed brunch, but Rose had thoughtfully grabbed a breakfast sandwich for me and left it on my desk. I dressed and went wandering, eating my cold English muffin, letting my feet take me where they wanted. I just had a feeling about the day. I was being pulled by something deep in my belly. I got on the subway and rode it a while, watching the Sunday tourists with their maps and newly purchased Red Sox hats. I got out at Hynes because I knew that was where I needed to be.

My body felt out of my control, as if I were some sort of preprogrammed robot, or maybe a sleeper operative set into action. Barely watching traffic, I crossed streets and wandered sidewalks until a lilting melody wrapped around me and tugged me toward it. It was as if the melody were a tangible string tied around my waist, a ball of yarn leading me out of the Minotaur's labyrinth. I had no choice but to follow. And I found myself in front of this church, the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows. Masses were over for the day, but the most beautiful melody was playing on the organ inside.

It had been years since I'd been inside a church—I guess the small chapel at Forks Country Day was the last time, if that even counted. I pulled open the heavy doors, and I could smell the rich incense, the oiled wood, the birthday cake smell of newly extinguished candles. And here was this melody.

I crossed myself with the holy water and genuflected, acting like a Catholic after having gone to Catholic school for so long. Even if I weren't sure what I believed, I respected these buildings and the people who worshipped inside. I respected anyone who could believe so much in something unseen, who could find comfort in such blind faith, especially since I was unsure of who I was and afraid of everything. I envied the people who found comfort here.

I followed the music toward a choir stall on the side of the church. A young man, his back toward me, was playing the organ. Even as he played this melody again and again, his feet working the traveling bass on the foot pedals, I could sense such joy radiating from him, through his white dress shirt. I was drawn to him like a moth toward candlelight, and before I knew it, I was at his shoulder. My hand reached up and grazed his arm.

He stopped in surprise, leaving the melody hanging in the air thickly like smoke, unresolved, and he turned to look at me.

My heart stopped.

_Edward Cullen_.

"Wha ... uh… I'm sorry," I said, snatching my hand away and staring at my feet.

He laughed, not unkindly, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Oh. You just startled me, that's all."

"What … what are you doing here?" I asked. Edward Cullen wasn't supposed to be in Boston. He'd gone to Northwestern after graduation; I was sure of it. It's what Angela told me the minute she'd heard he'd been accepted, and it's what was listed on our graduation programs.

He smiled again. "I'm just practicing. I'm sorry, was it distracting your praying? I'm almost finished."

He didn't remember me. I know I was different; I wore my hair differently and carried myself with a little more confidence than I did in high school, but still, I wasn't _that_ different.

_Should I ask him why he's not at Northwestern? Or will that seem stalkery?_ I wondered. I chickened out. No way would he understand, especially if he hadn't recognized me.

"What was it you were playing?" I asked, speaking softly in the large, echoing space. "It's beautiful."

"It's Bach," he said. "It's called 'Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme.'"

"Wake up, calls to us the voice," I murmured, translating.

"You speak German?" he asked, smiling a little as he flipped pages in the score.

"I'm taking it in school. Aren't you awfully … young to be the organist?" I decided if I were a stranger to him, I could ask questions without seeming too odd.

When he smiled, his eyes crinkled, just how I remembered. Even after three years away from him, the sight still sucked all the air out of my chest. "I just work here on the weekends. I'm a student at the conservatory."

He was supposed to be at Northwestern. Why was he here?

"Have you … have you been there long?" I quickly added, "You play so beautifully; you must not need much more school."

"Oh, I have a few years left yet. I transferred from Northwestern this year, you see." He laughed. "I have no idea why I'm telling you my life's story."

"I'm sorry for interrupting you," I said, shifting my weight uneasily from foot to foot. "Please don't let me stop your practicing. Do you mind if I listen for a bit? That melody … I can't describe it, but it does something to me here." I pointed at my heart, feeling foolish, my words so clumsy and faltering, jagged against the smoothness of his playing and the tranquility in the air of the dimly lit church.

"Of course I don't mind," he murmured, looking back at the score. He shook his hands out rapidly for a few seconds before adjusting the stops on the organ and beginning again. There was that beautiful lilting line again, gently rocking me, and then the melody would come in strong and triumphant. I had no idea what the piece was about, but it was so full of joy and hope, the meter pulsing through solidly like a heartbeat. It was a living piece of music, and I hungrily watched Edward bent over the keys, his hair in his eyes, and that look, that _look_ on his face of the ecstasy created by such great music flowing through him like electricity. I remembered that look. I missed that look.

He finished the piece and swiveled on the bench toward me. "I'm Edward Cullen," he said, holding out his hand.

He really didn't remember me, not even one whit. Not even a glimmer, a wrinkle in his brow, a ghostly feeling of déjà vu across his face.

I started to reach my hand to press it against his but stopped halfway. "I'm … I'm nobody," I said, and I turned and ran out the church, leaving, I'm sure, a very puzzled Edward Cullen in my wake.

Why didn't I stop? Why didn't I say, "Edward? Is that really you?" It was too late by the time he was introducing himself. I felt foolish, like a stalker. He would have thought I followed him there or something. And then, then the humiliation of having to remind him that he knew me, that he'd known me since I was thirteen years old, that I had loved him for about as long … it was too much.

Of course I never get what I want, because I'm too scared to fight for it. I'm too afraid to put myself on the line. I predict that I'll be rejected, so I take myself out of the equation first. Because deep down I know I'm not worth anything. Who would choose me? Who would want me? Who would find value in me? It's why I quit art school, and it's why I could not introduce myself to Edward Cullen, who had no memory of me.

I stand outside the church for a while, just listening. I realize that no one is playing music. My mind was playing tricks on me. As I did many Sundays ago, I enter the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows, looking around at the paintings on the wall of the Stations of the Cross, stopping at the painting of the Fourth Station: Jesus Meets His Mother. I study the image of his mother standing there, weeping, watching him pass her for the last time, knowing he is condemned to death, that he will soon die right in front of her eyes. The same baby she felt grow and stretch and move inside her. I think of Mrs. Cullen and the sorrow she has faced twice already in her relatively short life, and I know I have to do everything I can to bring him back.

I stop by the organ, covered and locked, before leaving, brushing my hand on the wooden bench. _He was here once, many times_, I think to myself as I leave, not running away this time, just quietly sorrowful.

As I walk back to my apartment, I think of that Sunday afternoon again, of going back to my dorm in Longfellow and rushing to my computer. I went online, looking for news, Googling "Edward Cullen" to see what I can find. He was listed for a few recitals at the conservatory in the last few months, and before that, for events at Northwestern. To think, that he had been in this city, _my_ city, that entire year. If I had been special, I would have felt his presence here. If I had been special, I reminded myself, he would have recognized me.

After that day, I looked for Edward Cullen everywhere, because now I knew he was living in my city. He was here. He was near me. He was near me, but so far away. I never stopped looking for him, though. Some days I thought I spotted him, but I was always too shy to approach. And now it was too late.

I'm already back at the apartment, and I am exhausted already, probably still worn out from my terror on the plane yesterday. I want to sleep so desperately, but I'm afraid, too, because I don't know what I'm going to do about Jacob.

_Don't make me choose!_ I scream internally, scream as if James could hear me. And I'm not sure if it's me answering, or James, when I hear a voice in my head say, _But you have already chosen._

I sigh, tugging off my boots and socks, and I head wearily to my bed, sleeping on top of the covers.

* * *

I'm at Seth's tree, dark, naked branches stark against the sky. _What have I done to you, Seth_? I ask silently, patting his trunk. Did I bring the wind that stripped him bare? My eye falls on the knife, that hated knife.

"I won't do it!" I cry out to the air, hoping James can hear me. I know he said I could refuse the boon at any time. I don't have to do this.

_My princess_. Jacob is at my side.

"I won't," I whimper, letting my head fall to my chest.

_You know what you need to do, _he says. _Do not be afraid_.

I'm crying like crazy now. "Why are you comforting _me_, dear Jacob?"

_It is all right. I … I think this is why you made me, all those years ago_.

"What? What do you mean?" I can barely see him through the scrim of my tears.

_I have been thinking while you have been away. And why should you have made me different from the others? Why should you have given me part of your heart?_

"Because you were the first. Because I needed you. Because you are a part of me, and I needed a part of me here."

_Or maybe you somehow knew that this day would come_, he says.

I don't really believe him. I think he's trying to make me feel better, trying to lessen my guilt over what I need to do. _NO, NO, NO, _I say to myself, _what I WILL NOT do_.

_You know you must_, he says, as if he is reading my mind.

"I can't. You know I can't do that to you. I can't lose you. I _love _you," I say, weeping.

_You have not said that in so long_, he said. _That makes me brave. I know I will not feel the bite of the blade_.

"You're talking crazy, Jacob. I'm not going to do it. I'm selfish. I'm scared. But I can't do that to you."

_Princess, __**you will**__. If you do not, I will leave this place. I will leave and never come back. I was made for this, and I am ready._ He stands by me and nudges my palm with his nose._ Thank you for loving me._

"Why? Why are you making me do this? You know what this means, don't you? You'll be gone. We won't see each other. We will never play again."

_But you will have __**him**__, will you not? And that will make you happy, will it not?_

"I … I am not even sure of that, dear Jacob. And you would give up your life for this? For this _indefinite_?"

_If it is an indefinite that would make you happy, that you have waited for your whole life, who am I to stand in your way? Who am I but someone you created to keep you company? I would not exist if not for you, and if you decide I should exist no more, then I will go. I will go, but first I will thank you for giving me life_.

I sink to my knees, sobbing into my hands. "No, Jacob. I won't. I won't do it."

_I will leave you. You will not see me again either way._

"I know that's just an empty threat, Jacob. You didn't leave my side when I begged you to bury me and forget me forever." I glance at the knife. "I know you're just trying to get me to do _this_." I can't even breathe the words of the second task out loud.

_I will live on. I am not afraid_, he says, sniffing my hair before lying down by my side.

I raise my head and hold his face with my tearstained hands. "Jacob. Look at me. Listen to me. I will not harm you. I want Edward alive more than anything else in the world, but I cannot harm you."

_You must. Or I will do it for you_. He trots over to the knife and picks it up with his teeth.

"What are you doing, Jacob?" I shriek, backing away until I'm against Seth's tree. "Keep that away from me!"

Even with his mouth around the knife, I can hear his voice clearly in my head. _You __**will**__ do this, my princess. I have never asked you for anything. I ask you this now. Cut out my heart. Let your Edward live. I live, I die, only to serve you. _He presses the knife into my hand, and pain shoots through my hand, all the way up my arm.

Something is different. With his saliva on the handle, the knife fuses to my hand. I couldn't let go of it if I tried, and it burns. It feels as though I am getting electrocuted, current and heat and pain pulsing through me. The knife transforms again to that deep, blood red glass, and Jacob lies on his back, waiting.

"I won't harm you, Jacob!" I cry, but my arm swings out against my will, the blade finding Jacob's chest.

_Do not be afraid, my princess,_ he says, even as the blade cuts through his flesh like a hot knife through butter.

"No!" I cry out, but my arm and the knife work together as one, and I have to look away. "I love you, Jacob, forever!" I can feel my arm working swiftly. I am an angel of death. The knife cuts deeply, cruelly, and I feel warm stickiness on my skin matching the warm stickiness of the tears drying on my face. The air is thick with the smell of blood and iron and the sound of my half of our shared heart breaking into a million pieces.

And then the knife hits something hard and falls out of my hand. My hand, still not quite my own, wraps around the hard object and pulls it out of his body.

I force myself to look at the jewel in my hand, the hidden part of my heart. Jacob's heart.

He is still alive, panting. _I knew you could do it_, he gasps. _Thank you_.

"Jacob! Jacob! Stay with me!" I cry. "I could never give you up for him—you _know_ that!"

_But you already have, my princess_, he says. _Do not mourn. I understand. _

I drop the jewel in the grass next to the knife, which once again is dull and stone. I gather Jacob into my arms, patting his head, kissing the fur I've bloodied with my hands. "Don't go, Jacob. Please. You don't need my heart to live. What is my heart? It is nothing. Who wants my heart? It is worthless." I squeeze my eyes shut in grief and rock him back and forth in my arms, praying, praying, praying. _Save him. Please let him be all right._

But I know even before I open my eyes that Jacob is gone.

I look at his lifeless body in my arms and sob all over again, wetting his fur. "I didn't choose this," I say, but I know in my heart that I did. I chose Edward. It would always be Edward, even if he didn't remember who I was.

I gently lay Jacob's body on the grass and stand up. I will at least make him the most beautiful, noble, majestic memorial there is. I can at least give him that. I can almost hear Leah scoff and tell me such gestures are meaningless, but they are not meaningless to me.

I close my eyes, hold my arms out, palm up, at my sides, and open my mouth to sing. I sing of the little puffball of wolfy I found under the bush, the brave beast who stayed by my side. I sing of his loyalty, his vigil over my dream-corpse when I begged to leave this land. I sing of his fierceness, of his finding me when I awoke in this land again, of his unwavering belief that I was his Princess Izzy, even if I remembered nothing. I sing of his selflessness, of his sacrifice to give me the thing I want most in the world. I sing of his heart, my heart. I sing all my love for him, the sweet, wild, loyal, vulnerable beast. I sing of Jacob. My Jacob.

I open my eyes, wondering what fine tree will stand as memorial to this great wolf.

I open my eyes.

Nothing.

There is no tree for Jacob. There is nothing.

I look down, and his mutilated carcass lies in a pool of blood at my feet.

I gather Jacob in my lap, not caring that my white garment is soiled. He is still warm. I weep over his lifeless body, remembering the painting of the Fourth Station, and I think, _Was I not, in some way, Jacob's mother? _

The wind whistles through the trees, through the empty space where Jacob's tree should be, and I cry into his fur, kissing his head, stroking his ears. I rock him gently as if to sleep, and I find myself singing, _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away._

I can't bring myself to sing the second verse.

**

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A/N: It was her crazy, jealous sister!**

**I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Please don't hurt me. Please do not send me dog poop. This has always been what was going to happen. **

**If you feel the need to send me dog poop, leave a review in the shape of a dog turd. Thank you.**

**Oh yes, and there is a link in my profile for this story's Twilighted thread, if you'd prefer to leave pictures of dog poop there. **

**Feisty out! _Wooooooo Percocet!_**


	22. She Fears She's Banished from the Garden

**A/N: Why hello! Hello, hello! My leg? Still broken. This story? Still mindfucking.**

**Thanks to the Gazebo for recommending this story (I have no access to the Gazebo, so I have no idea who recommended it or what they said, but hey, if you are reading it, it couldn't have been too bad) and also to some board on IMDb that recced this too. Again, no idea where these things are located, but thank you!**

**Thanks to the Gorgeous Ladies of Rav (GLoR), to mah Twitter bitches, to Ceci for actually sending me dog poop, and to algonquinrt and Becca Graymore for being really incredibly awesome when I had the sadz over my temporary mobility issues. And love to Twilightzoner, my fuckawesome Twi-beta.**

**And THANK YOU, to each and every one of you who has read and/or reviewed. I do read everything, and I know I am FAIL and behind in replying. I'm going to get on that right now. Thank you, thank you, thank you. This story doesn't exist unless it's read by others, you know? So thanks for giving this story life.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer will fuck me up but good if I claim these characters are mine. Tra la. **

**And now, on with the show.**

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Twenty-One: She Fears She Has Been Banished from the Garden**

I'm rocking poor, brave Jacob's broken body like I'm the fucking Pietà. I don't know how long I've been here, but his body is getting cold. There's nothing I can do. I can't revive him; I can't even erect a memorial to him. The least I can do is give him a decent burial.

I ease Jacob's body onto the ground and get to my feet. _Please give me the strength_, I think as I grab Jacob's forepaws and pull. I know I can't carry him—he is easily at least twice my weight. Amazingly, I am strong enough to drag him slowly towards the woods. I will bury him where I was once buried, I think. There's a kind of symmetry there; it seems fitting, somehow. It's what Jacob would want, to rest forever where once I rested.

I'm sweating, and my back is beginning to ache as I near the area where I was buried. There's no marker here, but I know the place by the pulling feeling I have when I stand over the ground. It's shady, and a breeze is blowing. In the hollow of the tree nearby, there is a scrap of linen from my shroud. As I pull it out of the hollow, the fabric grows and grows until it is large enough to wrap Jacob up, swaddling him tenderly as if he were a newborn baby. The fabric helps hold together Jacob's flesh, helps to give the illusion that he is whole and perfect, unmarred. But then his blood seeps through the cloth, leaving a shape like a heart or a lipstick stain over his fatal wound.

Jacob is now a tight, neat bundle, white except for that bloodstain. I lean down and kiss the bloodstain, whispering, _Thank you_, against it, as if I were whispering right into Jacob's ear. I'll never be able to thank him enough for his sacrifice, not if I live a hundred lifetimes.

I realize I have no way to dig a hole for Jacob's grave. The wolves dug my grave once, much as dogs hide their prize bones. But there is no one left to help me. If this had happened to Seth or Leah, Jacob would have helped me dig their graves. I look for a stick, a rock, anything that might help. I can't find anything, so I sink to my knees and weep. I can't do _anything_ for him.

When my tears splash on the earth, something strange happens. The dirt begins to shimmer and swirl, and I step back before I'm swallowed by the large, deep hole that suddenly appears. Someone has taken mercy on me, somehow, or my tears hold some power. I'm not sure which. Either way, I am grateful. I try to lay Jacob's shrouded body gently into the cavity in the earth, but he's too heavy and I too weak. He slips from my fingers and falls heavily into the hole, a sickening thud sounding when his body hits the bottom. I cringe even though I know he can feel no pain now.

I wearily get to my feet and sprinkle a handful of earth on top of Jacob's body. _Oh, Jacob, you were too perfect for this world_, I think, and fat tears continue to slide down my cheeks. The skies overhead turn black, and for the first time since I demanded to leave the dreaming, it is raining again. I throw clods of dirt on the body, muddying my hands. _May the choirs of angels come to greet you; may they speed you to Paradise_, I sing softly. My heart aches so much; a part of me is missing now, gone forever.

It doesn't take long to fill the hole in the earth, but even as I pat down the dirt on top of Jacob's grave, I know nothing will ever fill the hole in my heart. For now it is a sharp, stabbing pain; the sensory memory of the knife slicing through my friend runs over and over in my head on a loop. Even if the feeling fades to a steady, throbbing ache, I know I will carry this grief forever. As well I should—a permanent reminder of my selfishness, my trading an innocent life for an _indefinite_. I should be in pain. I should never forget. He'll live on in my heart because of the hole carved there, a phantom pain. _Maybe this is what Mrs. Cullen feels_, I wonder before stopping myself—she doesn't feel this way because she would never make such a horrible choice.

Or would she, to spare the life of her child?

I look around, wishing I had something to mark his grave, something like the obsidian I buried at Edward's gravestone. I search through the brush, my eyes sweeping across the damp, rotting leaves. _Please, please, please_, I pray silently to no one in particular, _please grant me at least this, one thing to make this grave a sacred place_. I see nothing, so I trudge back to the clearing, to Seth's bare tree.

The knife still sits there, dull and stone, looking deceivingly innocuous. I pick it up, no longer feeling electric prickles up and down my arm. No, now I just feel sharp pangs in my heart. The knife pulls me to Jacob's resting place, and my heels leave shallow trenches in the mud where I try to fight the magnetic force of the knife. Eventually I give in and run to keep up with the pulling.

The knife wants to burrow into the dirt, and I fight with all my power to keep it from contaminating my sweet Jacob's grave. "This is a sacred place," I hiss out loud to the knife, and my arms are shaking now from fatigue. "Was it not enough that you stole him from me?" I cry, still fighting against this tremendous downward force. As I fight, the blade slices my left palm. Gasping in shock and pain, I lose control over the knife.

Sticky with my blood, the knife pulls me to the ground, sinking easily into the dirt to its hilt. And then the strangest thing happens. The hilt grows and branches out, transfigured, gold and shining, and little flowers bloom, the same ruby red as my blood. I kneel by this strange little shrub and gently brush my fingers against a branch. It is cold to the touch, stiff, metallic. I cup a blossom in my hand. It is glass, perhaps even pure ruby. If this existed in my waking world, it would be priceless, in a museum in a vault watched over by armed guards twenty-four hours a day.

Only Jacob's unconditional love and complete selflessness could have the power to transform this object of evil into something so beautiful. But I remind myself that jewels and gold are not alive. This magical shrub, no matter how valuable monetarily, is worth nothing in comparison to my friend lying under this earth.

Still. But still. At least his grave is marked. He will not be forgotten. I could not create his memorial, but it seems that Jacob took care of that himself. He always could take care of himself. I lean in to kiss one of the ruby blossoms, and I cry out and wince as the gold leaves around the blossom clamp around my lip like a vise. I pull back, using my fingers to unhook the sharp leaves from my lip. The pain is like a bee sting, and my lip is bleeding. I run my tongue along my lip, tasting the iron in my blood.

I don't know if it's the true, dark nature of the knife that makes the shrub attack me, or whether it is Jacob's disapproval. My blood glistens on the center of the ruby-flower before it is absorbed, and the shrub stretches and grows almost imperceptibly larger. It is a wild memorial, unpredictable, untamable. Maybe that is a more fitting tribute to Jacob than one I could provide. Or maybe it's my punishment.

I think I hear rustling behind me, so I whip my head toward the sound. It feels as though there are eyes on my back, but as my eyes scan the area, I see no one, nothing. _There is nobody left_. I look at my mud-caked hands, the mud mixed with blood: Jacob's blood, my blood. These hands are impotent now, unable to call forth a memorial. Am I also unable to create? Maybe I just need to be cleansed, to atone. _Go to the Source_, the wind seems to say.

I leave Jacob's grave and walk, head bowed, back to the stream, to a shallow part where the current isn't likely to sweep me away. I step in carefully, washing my hands, kneeling down and letting the cold water puff up my bloodied dress. I'm momentarily floating inside a fabric mushroom. The water is freezing, but it is a relief, because it shocks my body, temporarily halting the pains in my heart. My skin is so cold that it feels as though it is on fire. I take a deep breath and dip down lower, until my head is below the water's surface.

I remember being under this stream before, the water burning into my lungs, and Jacob's sharp teeth pulling me out. The current is not dangerous here, and I hold my breath as long as I can in the shallow water, my eyes closed, memories of Jacob dancing behind my eyelids. When I stand up straight, breaking the surface of the rippling waves, I gasp for air. I hadn't realized how long I had held my breath. I emerge, reborn, and, I hope, clean again.

My dress is as bright as a full moon reflecting the sun, without a stain upon it. My hands are red from the cold but clean, aside from the cut on my left palm. My lip still bleeds, but it doesn't even feel like my body anymore. I'm numb from the iciness of the water. I step onto the riverbank, my long hair streaming rivulets of water down my bare arms, my feet finding warmth on the springy grass.

It has stopped raining.

I stand in the clearing by Seth's tree, by Leah's prickly pear cactus. I hold my arms out at my sides, palm up. I close my eyes. I open my mouth and sing, trying to bring new wolves into my world. Images flash and blur in my head, more and more quickly, the puffball of wolfy, Leah's haughty tilt of head, Seth's sweet smile. I see my charcoal sketches of all the forgotten wolves, the nameless ones, the lost ones. They are all lost ones now.

When the song stops pouring from me, I am afraid to open my eyes, afraid I have been banished from the Garden.

* * *

I wake up to complete darkness, in complete confusion. It could be midnight. It could be just after sunset. I have my barrette clamped in my left hand, clenched so tightly that it's made a deep groove in my palm. My lips are parched, cracked in the middle, and caked with dried blood. I shiver from falling asleep without the covers on and curse my old apartment building's faulty, unreliable heating and wiring. That's Boston for you—everything is so historic but falling apart. It should be warmer than this in here. I stretch and begin my search for lip balm.

As I stand up in the dark, I trip over something. My sketchpad. I don't know how it got here, but I shakily turn on my desk lamp, the closest light to my bed. I am shocked to see my right hand blackened with charcoal, and I am afraid to look at the new drawings. If they were drawn while I was sleeping … I don't think I could bear to relive what has just happened in my dreams. "Oh, Jacob," I sob out loud, wiping my face with my soiled hand. My tears mix with the charcoal, and I drag my finger across a blank patch of the open sketchbook page, leaving a long, inky smudge. Here is Jacob's noble face. I turn the page to see the knife in my hand. The sketch after that is almost completely blackened out. As soon as I make out the knife tip disappearing into Jacob's flesh, I flip past it quickly, feeling queasy. The last picture is of his tightly shrouded body, a wolf-shaped mummy. Stifling a sob, I bite my lip, reopening the wound on my chapped mouth. I hold my pinky to my lip to stop the bleeding. I press the fingertip of my pinky on the sketchbook to mark the spot on his shroud where his blood seeped through the linen. The red is startling on the mostly white page, and I can't tear my eyes away.

But it's wrong. It's wrong because the blood on the page is mine, but the blood on the real shroud, on the _actual_ object versus my inadequate paper representation of the object, is Jacob's. It only highlights what I was unable to do, to save him. He did this for me. I wonder if my own heart would have fulfilled James' requirements. Should I have cut out my own heart to save him _and_ Edward? But no, James said he needed the part that I'd hidden away in the dreaming.

And I have a feeling that when it comes to James, I have to follow his instructions to the letter.

I shake my head. I'm getting too mired in these dreams. The dreams are not reality. _Reality_ is reality. I look over at the glowing numbers on my clock. It's still early, dinnertime. Maybe I'll go for a walk, try to clear my head.

I flip on the overhead light, squinting a bit, reminding myself a little too much of the prickly feeling behind my eyes when James smiles, showing me all of his teeth. The light is painful, but I need it to see what I am doing. It must be even colder outside than it was when Rosie and I walked around earlier today. Layers. I need more layers.

I pull another sweater on my head and dig in my purse for lip balm. Should I call Rose again?

_She can't save you from yourself_, I hear myself think, and I wonder what I need saving from as I walk to the bathroom to wash the charcoal and tears off my face.

I bundle up, pull on my knit cap, and head back outside. The blast of cold on my face reminds me washing in the stream, and I wish for the numbness again to still my mourning heart. I suck on my lower lip, running my tongue against the crack in it. My lips taste like petroleum jelly and salt and iron. Why iron? It bothers me suddenly, thinking of trace amounts of metal running through my body. I imagine all the iron sucked from my body and fashioned into a weapon. That was in a movie once—_X-Men 2_, I think. My blood would certainly contain something that kills. I want it all out of me. It must be Renee's blood in me—her share of my genetic makeup—that makes me this way.

I walk down Newbury Street and look into the boutique windows, steal glimpses of happy couples enjoying dinner on this chilly Sunday night. I want the cold to deaden me, cleanse me, make me not feel my heart pumping this killer's blood inside me. I can't feel my toes, but it's a blessing. I hear laughter spilling out of the bars as drunken college kids stumble out into the night. It occurs to me that I'm always on the outside looking in. I also realize that it's my choice, this self-isolation. I think how easily I could have called Rosalie before leaving the house, but I couldn't make my hands obey my heart. _How very fitting_, I think, as this is the same dilemma I had with Jacob. How could my body betray me like that? I did not want to harm him, but my hands worked on their own.

Or maybe they were just acting out my basest desires? Did they kill him because as much as I cried out that I couldn't harm Jacob, that I of course would choose the maybe Edward over him? Does that also then mean I actually _want_ to be alone, as much as I feel lonely? I shake my head to all these thoughts. I am reading too much into everything. I wish I could stop my brain from all this useless and confusing churning.

I stop in front of the bar on Newbury where I saw Edward once, where I almost had the courage. I won't go in today. I want to keep myself on the outside tonight. My head is muddled enough as it is. My eyes lose focus as I remember that night.

It was his birthday, his twenty-first. It was late June, and the weather had just gotten hot but not so much that the air was thick with the stench of overflowing dumpsters. I never forgot his birthday. I never will, I don't think. Even before I knew he was living in Boston with me, I'd still think of him all day on June 20. I would imagine tiny newborn Edward, helpless, eyes shut, in the arms of his mother. He was an _indefinite _then too, if you think about it. If you saw this tiny baby, you'd never think that one day he'd save me from school humiliation with a tiny fruit sticker, that he would touch enough people in his short lifetime to fill an auditorium with mourners.

Junior year had just ended, and I figured that Edward might be home for the summer break, but I still thought, _Maybe I will see him_. That night, Rosalie and I were out prowling. We were both in Boston for the summer because she was taking summer school classes and I, well, I had nowhere else to go. I had just finished up dorm crew and working the reunions at Longfellow, and now I was looking for a temp job. We'd found a cheap sublet, though, made cheaper because we were sharing the small, vacant bedroom. "You're my bedbuddy bitch now," Rosalie had said when we woke up accidentally spooning the first morning in the sublet. We'd shared a dorm bedroom for three years already, but we'd always had separate beds. Obviously. I was surprised that I'd snuggled into her in the night, especially in the third floor walkup without air conditioning. Maybe she reminded me of sleeping between my parents after a particularly intense night in the wolf world when I was small. I used to do that, right? I didn't make up that memory? Would Renee have let me in her bed?

In any case, Rosalie didn't care. She just rumpled my hair and said, "No Rear Admirals unless you take me for steak dinner first."

I sputtered, "I'm not even going to ask what … that … is …"

Patiently, Rosalie explained, "That's when you take me to a restaurant where they make delicious steak. Then you pay for my meal. Then … Rear Admiral." She slipped out of bed to claim first shower, shutting the bedroom door behind her just in time to miss the pillow I'd hurled at her head.

When Rosalie had asked if I wanted to go out that late June night, maybe cross the river to walk along Newbury Street, I said yes. Because it was Edward's birthday, his twenty-first, and maybe he was out celebrating. Rosalie had already turned twenty-one that year, and she'd also hooked me up with a good fake ID that worked a majority of the time. I was only a few months away from twenty-one myself, and most of my underage drinking took place in dorm rooms. But Rose had insisted I needed the fake ID to get into over twenty-one shows that she liked to drag me to.

So we wandered up and down Newbury in our cute summer clothes. I was still pale from my thermal cocoon for the harsh winter and Boston's cold, damp spring, but I didn't care if I looked like a corpse. I was thrilled to be wearing a patterned halter top and a short skirt and not shivering in the night air. She hustled me into an Irish pub, my ID not even raising an eyebrow from the gruff bouncer, and announced, "Let's celebrate Veinte de Junio."

She ordered us a round of tequila shots, and I slammed it back, making my usual cat-coughing-up-a-hairball post-tequila noises. "I fucking love that, Pancho Bella," she said, patting my back and offering me another lime wedge.

"You _know_ Pancho Villa had nothing to do with Cinco de Mayo," I slurred. "You're a fucking history major."

"And you know how much I love how you fact-check even when you are hammered. And besides, how do you know what happened on Veinte de Junio?"

"_Important_ shit happened Veinte de Junio," I said, tilting slightly off the barstool. "'Dwardllen was born," I burbled into my glass of water.

"Is that a lesser Dwarf in _Lord of the Rings_?" asked Rose.

"Huh?"

"Dwardlen?"

"What the fuck is that?" I was confused.

"I think we need another round," she said, and she waved over the bartender.

I was pleasantly numb and cozy when I felt white-hot heat and prickles on my back. _He's here_, I thought, even through my boozed, hazy mind.

"Who's here?" asked Rosalie, eyes slightly glazed over.

Oh, crap. _Inner voice, Bella, inner voice_. I'd said it out loud. "Lesser dwarf. S'is birthday."

"Belly Busey, you are speaking in tongues."

"Tongues," I repeated, sticking mine out at her. "Dwardlen's here. Birthday."

I turned and saw him surrounded with a bunch of friends whooping it up. "Our boy's legal today!" I heard one guy say, clapping him on the shoulder. "Halfway through the pub crawl!" The friends all roared, drunken cavemen.

I heard Edward murmur something. He seemed embarrassed.

"'m gonna go over an' say hi," I said, steadying myself slightly as I hopped off the bench.

"To the dwarves?" asked Rosalie.

"Yes, pay attention," I said, my back already to her.

I tottered to the table. If I hadn't been goofy on tequila, I never would have walked to the circle of rowdy boys with Edward Cullen as its nucleus. "Hi," I waved as I stumbled over one of Edward's friends. "'S your birthday. Happy birthday."

"Hey, cutie," said one of his friends, snaking an arm around my waist. I slapped at his hand clumsily like I was shooing away a mosquito.

"Not _your_ birthday," I said. I swung my arm around wildly and pointed at Edward, nearly poking him in the nostril. "_Your_ birthday."

Edward's eyes were closed. "Is the whole room spinning, or is it just me?" he asked.

"I'm-a give you a birthday kiss," I said. Inside part of me was horrified, but Tequila Bella had Sobriety Bella good and tied up. I plunked myself on his lap while his friends hooted, put my arms around his neck, and planted a big kiss on his cheek. It was stubbly and smelled like heaven. I whispered in his ear, "Love you, Dwardlen."

He opened his eyes. "Do I know you?" he asked, his eyes crossing slightly. "Is the room wobbling? Are we on a boat?"

"I'm a elf," I said, "'m Liv Tyler. You are a Dwardlen."

"I'm pretty sure we're on a boat," he said, scrunching his face and holding onto his head.

I hopped off his lap and took a tiny plastic monkey off his drink. "I'm-a keep this. You're my Dwardlen."

"Where's this boat going?" I heard Edward demand loudly as I stumbled back over to Rosalie.

"I kissed him," I said.

"The dwarf?"

"No, pay _attention_!" I said, and we both erupted into giggles before settling our bill and cabbing it back home.

The next morning I woke up with a killer hangover and a taste in my mouth like I'd licked the inside of the Park Street subway elevator. I was still in my clothes from last night. I groaned as I rolled over, and something sharp poked into my leg. I dug my hand into my skirt pocket and found the little plastic monkey.

"Rosalie!" I shook her awake.

"The _fuck_, slore?"

"What happened last night?"

"Veinte de Junio, remember?" she said, yawning and rolling over, sticking her butt toward me.

"How did I get this monkey?"

"Oh, that was when you were mumbling about a dwarf and you sat on that guy's lap. Cute. Slore." She was already asleep again and snoring.

I stared at the monkey in my hand. Was that … did I … ? I guess I'd never be sure if I had really kissed him on the cheek. I was kicking myself for being too drunk to remember. But at the same time, I knew I never would have had the courage to walk over there unless I was drunk. And maybe it wasn't Edward anyway. Maybe it was some other kid whose birthday was yesterday. I scanned my memory for details—had anyone even said "Edward"?

But then I remembered the prickles I'd felt when he'd walked into the room. It was real. It had to be. I touched my mouth hesitantly, thinking, _This mouth touched his cheek_. I clenched the plastic monkey in my hand tightly, wishing it were Edward's hand. There was a cracking sound, and I opened my fist to see the plastic monkey broken into several pieces.

I can remember the taste of tequila on my tongue and his stubble on my mouth as I stand outside the Irish pub. I look into the darkened windows, trying to see the table where Edward sat with his buddies that night so long ago. The night is a hazy memory rebuilt collaboratively with Rosalie over the years, and she doesn't even know why it matters so much. I think she just chalked it up to another of our drunken adventures. I can't even remember what the sun's warmth feels like on my bare skin. How could I remember a night years ago when I was drunk?

I breathe on the glass and take my mitten off, using my bare fingertip to trace in the fog, _I know you were here_.

I turn around and head back home.

I peel off layer after layer as I stand in the now-stifling heat of my apartment. It's always this way, either too cold or too hot. Never Baby Bear just right. Once I've achieved the proper temperature/clothing ratio, I sit cross-legged on my bed with my laptop. I know I shouldn't, but I power it up to check Edward Cullen's MySpace music page. I haven't looked since before the plane crash. The familiar blue banner loads onto my monitor, and then his beautiful face, and then his voice and guitar surprise me, as they always do, streaming from the music player embedded on the page. I scroll past the songs heavy on guitar and cello until I settle on my favorite, one of just him and the piano. I close my eyes and pretend I'm in the music room at Forks Country Day on a Wednesday, just me and Edward, and he is singing this to me. _I'll get to know you someday_, he sings, and I get chills until I realize the song is called "Sweet Emmeline." Emmeline. Emmy. Emmy Elizabeth Cullen, his baby sister, forever a baby. I should have put that together when I found the Cullen gravestone.

Well, maybe they are together now, I think. Maybe that's why he was called home, to take care of her. I don't know.

I feel like a voyeur, but I can't stop myself from reading his MySpace wall. It's filled with condolences, people who knew him better than I did, retellings of experiences of which I never knew, memories I never shared. And of course, message after message about Tanya, how perfect she was for him, how she brought out everything that he needed, how she was his muse, drawing beautiful music from him, how they fit together like fragments from a piece of shattered pottery. It makes me think of the myth that says all humans are male and female before coming to this dimension, that they are ripped apart before awakening and struggle their whole lives to find their missing half.

I dig a shoebox of college mementos out of the closet and lift up the lid, taking out the broken plastic monkey pieces from Edward's twenty-first birthday, trying to fit them together, trying to make them whole. The monkey smiles at me, as if being broken into pieces is perfectly normal, perfectly acceptable. Tiny shards of plastic have been lost in the years since I woke up with the monkey in my pocket, and even if I had Krazy Glue, the seams would always be imperfect, with missing bits like chipped teeth.

I shake my head at my foolishness, power down my computer, and prepare myself for bed, afraid of what I will find when I fall asleep, afraid that I will discover that I am an exile in the dreaming.

**

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A/N: The cocaine was hidden inside the sofa!**

**I'll put a link to the Pietà in my profile, in case you are not familiar with the statue. **

**So, I'm up for this Support Stacie auction. The link is, again, in my profile. Please bid on me if you want an outtake of Seth's crazy adventures in Wolf Valhalla or some other shizz. I'll write almost anything, except that which conflicts with the integrity of this story as a whole. I also started my version of the Twilight Twenty-Five Challenge, and I'll extend anything there if you are interested and the winning bidder. Or I will write you a happy one-shot, for real, where everyone is just crazy happy la la la puppies and rainbows and only mild citrus (because if I write a full-out lemon, the world will tell me I'm having sex wrong, and that's … well, no one should be told that because it is hurty).**

**I'm now off Percocet, so I can no longer blame this wackiness on my opiate haze. I'm just saying "opiate" because Fats finds the word sexy.**

**Oh, and if TwirlGrrl and Freed Eagle, PI, give their permission, I will link to a hilariable manip of Bella and Deadward. I warn you, it is not for the faint of heart or those lacking a sense of humor.**


	23. She Contemplates the Nature of Sterility

**A/N: Well, holy shit, y'all. I've been recced on the Fictionators and the Lazy, Yet Discerning Ficster. And by a shit-ton of really awesome authors in their way cooler stories. I … I just don't know what to say. I'm thankful for every single rec out there, and for anyone giving this crazy ride a chance. **

**I'm totally flummoxed and terrified that I'm not going to live up to expectations now, especially now that I'm no longer on opiates. **

**I know this story is not happy sunshine and puppies, and I am truly, truly amazed and grateful that so many of you have kept reading. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading, for telling your friends, for following me on this journey. Maybe some day I'll tell you the real story.**

**Love to my usual peeps at the UU, Algie and Phila, and Twilightzoner, my Twi-beta of Awesome.**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer would not make wolf jerky.**

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* * *

Twenty-Two: She Contemplates the Nature of Sterility**

When I first open my eyes, I think I must still be in between, in that strange limbo between waking and sleeping, like a jetway to the dreaming. In-between places. I hate them. I try to open my eyes wider. I try to wake up here in the dreaming, because I know I'm not awake. I can't be. If I were in the dreaming, I'd feel more alive. I'd feel less afraid. I'd feel … different, somehow.

I rub my eyes hard and blink a few times. Everything is gray and misty, bleak like the landscape of my heart without Jacob. I look down at myself. I'm wearing my white gown. I'm here. I'm in the dreaming. But where are the wolves? The last thing I remember before waking was singing more wolves, creating them in this world. I can't hear a sound. I must be too far from the Source to hear the rushing water.

I walk through the mist. I can barely see the hand in front of my face. I try to recognize where I am by the ground under my feet. But the grass looks the same. I decide to close my eyes and let my body guide me. Heel, toe, heel, toe, I softly step through the damp grass, cool under my feet, hoping that at any moment I will hear new wolves barking, scurrying, calling to me.

I am met with nothing but silence.

But I won't give up hope. I can't.

I follow the pull of the land, trusting my body not to lead me into danger, and collide with Seth's tree. I open my eyes. My eyes are stinging from the pain of my nose hitting the bark. I look around with trepidation but still a tiny flicker of hope. If there were wolves, they would be here, surely. This is where they would gather. Seth's tree is still bare, and the only brightness is the hot pink of the flowers growing out of Leah's prickly pear cactus. So it's true, then. My powers here are gone. I have no authority to build, to rebuild, to repair. _Why am I here, then_?

Gazing around at the gray and hearing only the silence, my mind fills with more T. S. Eliot:

_This is the dead land  
This is cactus land  
Here the stone images  
Are raised, here they receive  
The supplication of a dead man's hand  
Under the twinkle of a fading star_.*

Facing away from the woods, I feel a strange tingling on my neck as if I'm being watched. I turn around and try to look through the fog and mist to the trees. Of course I can't see a thing.

I circle Seth's tree, my hand on the bark. I circle three times. I'm not sure why. On my third revolution I stub my toe on a root clawing its way out from the ground. Nestled here is the iridescent jewel, Jacob's heart, my heart. It sickens me to see it, to remember how I cut it out of Jacob's chest. I sicken myself. I look at my hands, and I want to damage them. I feel the sore spot on my mouth where the shrub at Jacob's grave, made of the very knife which killed him, pierced my lip.

I deserve this pain. I deserve _more_ than this pain. _Why am I here?_ I ask myself again.

I reverently bend down on one knee and scoop up the jewel, the heart. Our heart. It belonged to both of us. Now that Jacob is gone, truly gone, I don't know what I'll do without him. I don't know what was so important to me.

_Edward Cullen_, my mind whispers immediately.

When did the land become so gray (_the dead land, cactus land_)? I'm chilled in my sleeveless linen dress. I sit down, placing the heart in my lap. I rub my hands over my bare arms rapidly, trying to warm them. I would almost prefer the bite of the knife in my hand again. I'd gladly feel that pain if it meant Jacob would be here with me.

_Edward Cullen_, my mind urges once more.

Right.

I have to do this now. I am committed. Because if I let my grief and guilt over Jacob consume me, then he will have died for nothing. He sacrificed himself so I might have the thing I want most in the world: just the _hope_ that one day, Edward Cullen might know who I am. I'm not even asking that he falls in love with me—I just … want him to know I'm so much more than that girl who was so shy and tongue-tied and awkward. I graduated from Longfellow. That's got to count for something, to some people. I have passion for art, just like he does—_did_, I correct myself, still finding it hard to think of him in the past tense—for music. I'm not dull. I'm someone worth knowing—aren't I?

_Don't I matter?_

I'm not deluded. I know I can't be what he wants. I'm no muse like his beautiful and talented Tanya. But just having the _hope_ there, the _maybe_ …

I break my train of thought, because it strikes me how sad it is that _this_ is all I want. I'm pathetic. A genie comes out of the lamp and grants you a wish, and most people would figure out a way to change their whole lives or save the world. And I'm focused on this one person who won't even know who I am. I lie to myself and say that it's because I want to save his loved ones from pain. And yes, that is a part of it. I can't bear the thought of a loving mother aching for her much-wanted child. Or two people deeply in love forever on opposite sides of the Great Divide. Or a sweet girl, who has probably seen enough horror in her young life to fill several lifetimes, forever without a fierce and loving guardian, a boy who tirelessly does anything to make her laugh. What will her life be now? What could her life have been, if he had not been killed?

If these were my reasons for my wish, I would be foolish, but still noble.

No, I've bet everything, given up everything in this world just so _I_ will know that he is _out there_. That at least I can say, "We both live. We both live on this earth." Is it selfish to want that? Or should I have asked for more? Should I have asked that Edward come back _and_ that he'd know me? Love me?

I don't know how to ask for things. I don't know what's too much. I feel selfish. I want to be selfless. I know I don't deserve much, and here I've asked for this enormous thing—a huge wish that, even if it were possible to fulfill, will yield nothing but more longing. I'm a fool.

I've asked the Eternal to bring back the dead, or to turn time backwards, or to create an alternate reality where none of this ever happened. It goes against all logic, all reason. I'm amazed that I have wished for something so large and impossible, yet at the same time so small and sad. I never know how to ask for what I want. Maybe it's because I don't know who I am.

Sometimes I wish I'd never returned to the dreaming. _I was fine all those years, you know_, I think. When I was tired, I'd just close my eyes. There was nothing to fear in sleep, because there were no dreams, only rest. No one was in danger. No one was dying. No one was being killed by my hand. _Yes they were_, my mind interrupts me again. _Just because you chose to leave doesn't mean life stopped here._ _The wolves died __**because**__ you weren't here to protect them_. All those wolves, the ones without names, all gone. And the three I remember, they are gone too. It's only me now. _The cheese stands alone_, I think, remembering a book from long ago, a dog-eared, creased paperback tucked in the front pocket of the book bag by my feet in the music room while I stared at Edward Cullen bent over his guitar.

Was it my choice to dream again? Did I do something that made this happen, the way it was my choice to leave the dreaming? A third time, I ask myself, _Why am I here?_

I look down at my lap, at the gemstone that fills me with piercing sorrow.

_Edward Cullen. Save him. _

Do I think my thoughts, or does someone else think them for me? I don't even know what voice in my head I'm hearing anymore. I feel that prickle on the back of my neck again, but I don't bother looking. I know I won't see anything.

I stand slowly, our heart in my hand, shaking out the numb fingers of the other one to get some feeling back in them. It's time to go back to James. We must finish this. I've already given up so much. And Jacob? Jacob has already given up everything.

* * *

It takes me a minute to remember where I am, who I am, as I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Home. I am home. Which home? Whose home? I have only one home, and that's with Charlie. Why am I even here?

I seem to be asking myself that a lot lately.

I miss Charlie so much. I want to call him, but it's too early. I know it's too early without even checking the time. I can tell from the angle of the sunbeams through my blinds that I shouldn't even be awake yet. I should still be on Pacific Time, at least for a few more days. I hate my body for adjusting so quickly, for forgetting so easily my true time zone. Couldn't it wait even a few days before setting back to this, the zone of my solitary, adult life in Boston? Why can't my body let me at least pretend I am still in Forks?

What am I even going to do today? It's Monday. If I were working this week, I could at least get up and take a shower, maybe tidy up my place or change my sheets, anything to fill the time before I'd have to leave. But I haven't called my temp agency yet. I'm not even sure if I want to work. I'm a little short on cash, but I've got enough for next month's rent, and I think I'll be okay on food and utilities if I work next week. This week though … I just can't go back. I don't want to talk to anyone but Rose. I don't think I can put on a normal face and try to be helpful and pretend my world isn't falling apart—no, not fall_ing_. Has already fallen. Both my worlds, awake and asleep, destroyed. In frustration, I punch the mattress with both fists, sending up little clouds of dust that remind me of the mist covering the dreaming. Did I make that happen?

God, I want to mourn Jacob. I thought it was hard enough to lose Edward Cullen, but he was never mine to lose. Jacob, though—Jacob was mine, all mine. He lived only in my world, lived for me, died for me. He was my _friend_. I'm sitting up now, sobbing, hating myself. I hold my head in my hands. _Pull it together, Bella_, I tell myself. _You're weeping over __**dreams**_. My thoughts are erratic and irrational, and I just … I just don't sound sane.

I reach by the bed for my sketchbook and my drawing pencils. I flip through the book, looking for new sketches. Nothing, no new material, the same way there were no new wolves by Seth's tree. I haven't drawn anything while I was sleeping last night. What if I've lost it all?

I sit up with the sketchbook, looking at a blank page. I put the graphite tip of the pencil to the paper and let my mind wander. My hand works furiously, a blur against the page, and when I stop, I see the grove of trees where Jacob is buried and a pair of eyes like lit coals staring back at me. I remember the prickly feeling on the back of my neck. _Who's out there? Who are you? What are you?_

Prickly feeling aside, drawing the picture has calmed me, and I roll over onto my side and try to sleep again. I put one hand under my pillow and let the other rest on the cover of the sketchpad.

* * *

I'm standing now with our heart in my hand, turning it this way and that, trying to see the different colors glinting off, but it's still too hazy here. Maybe the sun will never return. Maybe I destroyed that too.

I square my shoulders and walk to the Bridge Between. My teeth chatter from both cold and dread. I've come to learn that nothing good ever comes of these meetings.

"James?" I call out, my voice faltering. I'm trying to be brave. "May I cross?"

I don't hear an answer, but I step onto the bridge anyway, feeling the wetness in the air from the spray as the Source crashes against the rocks. The wooden slats creak, and I hold Jacob's heart in one hand and the rope in the other. I am inside a cloud, so far above the ground, and I think of being on a plane, my terror of being that high. I'm not afraid like that, though. I just know the bridge will hold. I know I will not slip.

I know, because I have Jacob's heart with me.

I reach the end of the bridge, and everything is still white, a blank canvas.

"James?" I call again.

"Young Archer, have you returned?" His voice is everywhere, not in my head, but just part of the air.

"I have come with my heart," I say, gripping the gem more tightly in my hand.

"Then by all means, enter," the voice says, and the columns and sconces and arches reappear, swiftly sketched by an unseen hand.

I step off the bridge and follow the familiar path to the room where James and I conduct our business.

"Welcome," he says, and he smiles, gesturing to the white chair that has appeared from nothingness. I squint against the glare.

"I'd rather not sit right now," I say. Sitting here, casually, holding Jacob's heart, as if we are about to have tea … it doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem respectful.

"Up to you," he shrugs, as if this angel-like body could make a gesture so common, so mortal. It's an approximation of a shrug, practiced but not quite organic, as if he's Jane Goodall trying to fit in with the chimps after eons of observation.

I hold out Jacob's heart. I don't want to give it to James. I don't know what he will do with it. But I know Jacob would want me to do this. He died so that I might live. If I hold onto the heart, then it all was for nothing. "Here is the part of my heart which was hidden in this land, cut by the knife which gave life to the Stone One."

"I see," he says coolly. I don't know what I expected from him, but these curt answers are confounding.

"I've completed both tasks. Now, will you do it?" I'm agitated, impatient.

"Do what, my fair maiden?"

"Will you waken the Sleeper?"

"Tsk, tsk," he clucks—again, in a divine being's too elegant imitation of our clumsy human behavior.

"What have I done wrong?" I demand.

"Nothing, my dear," he smiles. I think he is trying to smile benevolently, but somehow … it feels false to me. I don't trust him. I wish I'd never asked for this boon.

"You don't want the boon any longer?" he asks, reading my mind. "You wish to end the journey here?"

I look at the heart in my hand. I think of all I've already done, all I've already destroyed. Do I keep going forward on this path? What else will be ruined? Or will stopping now make everything that has come before this moment meaningless?

Jacob would not want me to turn away. He _died_ for this. He gave himself up for this. As scared as I am of what might come next, I owe it to him not to give up.

"I wish to continue the journey," I manage. "Do you … do you need this?" As much as I hate to do it, I hold out the heart to him.

He hisses and backs away. "I may not touch it, if you want the boon. But lay it over there." He points to a small but blindingly white dais under a glass bell jar. I walk toward it slowly, not wanting to lose this part of Jacob forever. As I approach, the jar floats upward enough for me to slip the heart there onto a white pillow on the platform, white on white. It looks sterile. Sometimes _sterile_ is a good thing, like for bandages and gauze and medical instruments. And sometimes it means that nothing lives here. Nothing _can_ live here. Sometimes, _sterile_ means death.

As I'm thinking about the nature of sterility the jar swings back downward, nearly slamming down on my fingers. I barely get my hands out of the way in time.

I feel even sicker than I felt before, seeing his heart on the pillow, encased in glass, in this strange place. This was a mistake. I feel it in my bones. I try to touch the glass, but there's a sharp, electric pulse when I get too near. His heart is lost to me now, forever.

"Now," says James.

"Yes?" I wish my voice sounded bigger, stronger. It is but a mouse squeak, tiny and insignificant.

"Your journey is almost complete."

"What now?" I ask, filled with dread.

"There is a third task. The final task."

There's something about the way he says "final" that makes me shiver.

"Just tell me." I'm gathering handfuls of my dress, crinkling the linen in my fists anxiously.

James glides over to me, almost cupping my face with his radiant hands, but he stops just shy of touching me. "I'm sure you must have guessed by now, Isabella."

"Are we playing games now? Guessing games?" I turn my face away from him. I don't want him to touch me.

"This is not a game, and you know it," he says, letting his hand drop by his side. "Don't act ungrateful, Isabella. It's unseemly."

"I'm sorry," I say, although I'm not at all. "It's been a rough couple days here. You know, having to cut up my friend and all."

"Hmm," he says, studying me. "I don't recall forcing you. Everything you do here is your choice, Isabella."

It sure doesn't feel like it. I think how alone I am, of the bleakness that awaits me on the other side of the Bridge Between (_the dead land, cactus land_). "Why are there no more wolves?" I blurt out. I don't mean to, but it just spills out of me. "I tried to create them the way I always have."

"Ah, Isabella. Consequences. Did you think you would escape unscathed from such a large request? You took life that you created. Your hands are no longer clean."

"I washed in the stream," I say, knowing I'm grasping at straws.

"Don't insult us both by pretending I am speaking literally."

"Why didn't you warn me this would happen?" I look over at the dais, at Jacob's heart under the glass. It seems like a contradiction that being unclean has rendered me sterile. These hands, my voice, no longer create. And they will not create again. I know this now, without needing further confirmation from James.

"Isabella, you never asked. When will you learn to ask the right questions? All actions have consequences. You asked to waken the Sleeper. I am helping you down this path. You knew it would not be easy. I told you that from the start. You are asking me for something nearly beyond my power to grant."

He acts as if he's doing me this big favor. I guess he is, when I think about it. He's doing me a favor because I inadvertently did him a favor. But why does it mean I have to give so much up?

"Do you wish to know the third task or not?" he asks calmly. How can he frighten me so much with such a quiet voice, such a beautiful face?

"I do," I whisper.

"You do not wish to guess?"

"I do not."

"Well then. Remember that you asked."

"I will. Just tell me, Eternal."

"Isn't it obvious? I am surprised you haven't figured it out yet."

"Just _tell _me." I am tired of his games. As much as he says he doesn't play them, I can't help feeling like a mouse trapped under the paw of a giant cat. I just wish he'd deliver the final blow instead of toying with me, making me twist in the wind.

"Isabella, my dear. Since this involves the human realm, there needs to be an exchange, a life for a life. You need to give up yours."

The room spins around me, and I feel like I'm on that ride at the amusement park where the barrel spins and the floor drops, and you're pinned to the wall with nothing beneath you. "What?" I manage to gasp.

"Isabella, you need to die."

* * *

I wake up screaming, my hands tangled in my hair.

My sketchpad lies open on my lap covered by my comforter. It lies open to the picture that has scared me since I drew it, the one of me tied to the stake, a scarecrow, my arms pinned to a crossbar.

And for the first time, I see it for what it truly is. I'm not a scarecrow.

I am a sacrifice.

* * *

* T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men."

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A/N: He said no salt! No salt!**

**Hey, folks, I'm on Twitter now, twitter(dot)com/feistyybeden. Follow me if you want the latest on what I'm writing, when teasers or chapters are up, and if I have pants on.**


	24. TwentyThree:She's the Answer to a Riddle

**A/N: First of all, I'd like to thank Team Flippy-Floppies for winning me in the Support Stacie auction. If you want to see their special one-shot, make sure you are subscribed to "The Cullen Family Players Present." **

**Thank you to all the pimpers, the readers, the lovers, the dreamers. You guys are awesome.**

**Boob gropes for mah UU ladies of ill repute, and philadelphic and Algonquinrt for the serious good times and for trying to get me drunk and/or confused enough to spill the ending. I AIN'T SPILLIN'! Kisses to Twilightzoner, my Twi-beta of Sheer Awesome.  
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**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer is a brick house, mighty mighty! I think I'm the house made of straw. If I'm lucky, I'm made of sticks.  
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Twenty-Three: She Is the Answer to a Riddle**

I don't know how long I've been sitting here, staring at the drawing of me as an offering. I feel numb and dizzy. I've untangled my fingers from my hair, but I hold my head in my hands.

_Oh, god._

What am I going to do? This is fake, right? He can't mean that I actually have to _die_, can he? But … oh, god.

I'm at a crossroads. I can feel it. I can take the sane person's route and say that they are just dreams, or I can take the crazy person's route and say they are real. The sad thing is, I often feel so much more alive in these dreams. I look out the window, and Boston stares back at me, colorless, cold, dead. I close my eyes and think of the dreaming, lush and green and very much alive. Alive, that is, until I came back and ruined everything.

I idly wonder if it's me. If I'm the factor that brings ruin. I ruined two lives in Forks for sure, and every winter in Boston I feel like the world has ended just by my being here. I know it's a silly and unhealthy way to think, and of course I don't think I'm responsible when the world is reborn in the spring. Only the bad things feel like they're my fault.

Consider the dreaming: I reappeared in the dreaming, and now it's drab, desolate, colorless. Empty.

When in my life did I see color around me? I think of my old truck, the bumper covered in fruit stickers, a patchwork quilt in harlequin's colors. There was color then, gaudy, perhaps, but still vibrant. Definitely not in-between. But that's the only place in my real life that I remember that intensity of color. So who's to say that this world is real and the dreaming is the false one?

But: dying. Yeah. I … no. I am scared. I've been scared my whole life of dying. It's the reason I'm afraid to fly. It's the reason I'm afraid to _try _anything or make any sort of real decisions. That's my biggest problem, I think—I'm so afraid to die that I never actually _live_.

So what's the big deal, then? If I'm not really living, does it matter if I die?

Jacob's words come back to me: _You are always given a choice. You may take it, or you may not. Your path is always changing._

But I'm not so sure, as I look at this drawing I made before I knew the third task—before I knew there _was_ a third task at all. Yes, I could choose not to follow this path, could choose not to complete the journey, but didn't my body somehow know when I drew this picture how this journey would end? I don't really feel like my path is always changing.

What's the alternative? To keep living my life, to flounder in the temp world, never figuring out who I am? Going home to Forks for good and admitting to the world that I gave up, that everyone was wrong about expecting so much of me? To acknowledge that I'm just a cookie-cutter carbon-based life-form who will never make a difference, who might as well have never been born?

Or is this my chance to do something great? To _be _great? For my life to have meaning? I can save someone. I can be a hero. I can make a difference, and for once, in a good way. Me.

_If it's real_, I remind myself. And it may not be.

Would it still be worth it?

I'm thinking in circles, so I throw the covers off and begin pacing around my small apartment. I stub my toe on my suitcase. Shit, I should have unpacked it by now. All I've done is fish my pajamas out when I got home. I unzip the bag completely and flip the lid open. It looks like a gaping mouth, reminding me for a second of the Stone One preparing to devour my dear Seth and my complicated Leah.

_He's gone now_, I remind myself, plunging my hands into the bag and tossing my clothes out. Even with the bag partially open for a day or two, the clothes still hold onto the scent of Charlie's house, like my cells never stop longing to be with him. Eventually the fabric will release the scent molecules back into the air, give up their hold to absorb the smell of my barren apartment. The clothes will lose their memory of their time in Forks, but I, I never will.

It would be easier if I could forget, I think. My heart wouldn't hurt all the time.

I toss my dirty clothes into the laundry basket, put my shoes away. I reverently lift out the homecoming dress, still on its hanger in the plastic bag, and hug it to myself. I stand in front of the full-length mirror and remember trying it on for Charlie. I hold the hanger with my hands and pretend to dance with it, my body as a stand-in for Edward's.

My body for his.

I wonder if the dress still fits. I consider trying it on just to see, but this dress is a relic. If I open the bag, something, some essence, will be lost. I don't want to do that. His hands were the last thing that touched the velvet here. I touch the dress only through the plastic, protected from the elements, from the oil in my fingers, from anything that would cause the dress to age or disintegrate.

It's kind of like me, living in plastic. Shielded, trapped in time, inert. Inert, as in, not interacting with others, not mixing, not becoming part of some greater whole. Not living. It's funny that inert gases on the periodic table are also called _noble_. I certainly don't feel _noble_. I feel … sterile. Like I am now in the dreaming. Sterile. Noble. Inert.

Who am I?

I sigh heavily and slide the hangers in my closet aside to make room for the dress. All my other clothes are out, messily hung on their cheap hangers. I don't have anything dry-cleaned, like, ever. I wonder how old this plastic bag is on the dress, if the thrift store reused old garment bags or if they had a roll of new ones. Seeing the one dress in plastic among all the other pieces of clothing, I can't help but think of introducing a new fish to an aquarium, letting it float for a while in its own plastic bag to get used to its foreign surroundings.

"Welcome home," I say to the dress.

After the suitcase is empty, I zip it up again and shove it back in its storage place.

I have slept past noon, and I decide to give the apartment a thorough scrubbing. I can't think of anything else to do, and I can't bear to get out of my pajamas. It's just one of those days. I want to stay inside. I have to turn on every light because the sun sets so early, and the light that does filter through is pale and weak. There's no warmth in this light. False light. Light should be warm, life-giving. In-between things again.

My nose is getting cold, so I put on a fleece and my slippers. I feel like I'm home sick or skipping school. I keep the TV on so I don't feel so alone. I thumb through a few books, but I can't focus enough to read more than a paragraph of anything. I leave chores half-finished, dropping a paper towel smudged with Windex and dust on the kitchen table, picking up discarded socks and dropping them on the bed, distracted by something on the TV. I drag my vacuum across the floor but leave it there running when I stop to stuff some crackers into my mouth.

As the sun sets, I'm not sure the apartment is any cleaner than it was when I started. At least my suitcase is put away. I look at the spot on the floor where the suitcase used to be, and my heart aches a little because my apartment looks completely ordinary. It's as if my trip home never happened. There's no indication, no memory that says, "Bella Swan went back to Forks. She saw her father. She held hands with Edward Cullen's sister."

Maybe the trip was never real.

In a panic, I run to the closet and throw open the door. The dress hangs there like an old friend, like it's always been here. I touch a sleeve of the dress through the plastic. "I was there," I murmur to myself. "It happened."

I call Charlie's work number. A strange woman's voice answers.

"M-may I talk to Chief Swan?" I ask. I thought I knew everyone at the station, but I realize that I never even stopped by while I was home to see Charlie at work.

"I'm sorry," she says, "but he's not here at the moment."

"Okay," I say.

I'm about to hang up, feeling stupid, when the woman says, "Do you want me to take a message for him?"

"Can you tell him that Bella called?"

"Bella? Is this Bella Swan? Chief Swan's daughter?" she says.

"Yes," I say politely, fighting my urge to hang up the phone. My thumb hovers over the "end call" button, twitching anxiously.

"It's nice to meet you. I mean, I know we haven't _really_ met, but we're talking on the phone, so it's like we're meeting, and, oh gosh I'm babbling all over. Your dad talks about you all the time. He's so proud of you, you know."

"Yes?" I say, my heart swelling with pleasure a little, but also feeling like any minute I'll be exposed as a fraud. _They don't really know how little you've made for yourself. And what happens when they find out who you really are? When they find out you're nothing?_

"All the time! I feel like I know you. Oh, I'm sorry," she chatters on, "I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Diana."

"Nice to meet you," I say, smiling. I know she can't see me, but I hope she can hear it in my voice.

"I hope you'll stop in the next time you're in Forks so I can see the Chief's famous daughter."

The next time I'm in Forks. When will that be? I try not to sigh directly into the phone.

"It was good to talk to you," I say. "I won't take up any more of your time."

"All right, sweetheart. I'll make sure to tell your dad you called. Take care now."

"Thanks. Bye," I say, finally letting my thumb end the call and staring at the phone in my hand. Charlie barely says two words to me in person or on the phone, but it's always like this. When I meet new people who know him, they always say he talks about me all the time. I know he's got pictures of me in his fat, battered wallet, baby pictures, school pictures, even my graduation photo from Longfellow, and I'm pretty sure he trots them out for everyone to see, laying them down with a little smile on his face, as if he's got a winning hand of poker.

I know he must _really_ be proud if he talks about me when I'm not there to hear it. And I guess I know, deep down, that he doesn't care that I'll never be anyone _important_, at least the way I define _important_. But still. But still, I wish I could be the person he thinks I am. I wish I could make him proud the way he thinks he's proud of me. It's all based on this false image he has of me, the confident, successful graduate of Longfellow, someone who can weave in and out of these Ivy League social affairs, who knows which fork to use, who knows which wine goes with what kind of meat. He knows I won't be sitting at a fancy dinner with my hands awkwardly folded in my lap, not knowing what to do or say to fit in.

It would be nearly impossible to come out of four years of Longfellow _not_ knowing those things, but that doesn't make me particularly special. I'm more like a trained parrot. Anyone could learn this stuff. I haven't been able to make good on the other side of things, the part where I actually make the world a better place. That the world is better off for my having lived in it. My footprints will be washed away by the tide, and there will be no trace that I ever was here. It's not like Neil Armstrong's footprint on the moon, there now and forever. The world will always know where his foot has trod. But me? I'll have never existed. I'll be eraser shavings brushed aside and swept into the dustbin.

_But you can make something of yourself. You can be a hero_.

Not this train of thought again. These are dreams; they aren't real. It won't make a difference.

Right then, a commercial comes on TV, and my heart nearly stops, because it's _his voice_. It's a commercial for car insurance, and there's a song playing faintly in the background. It's not one of the songs on his MySpace page, but I would recognize his voice anywhere. Edward Cullen sings and plays his guitar, as a car drives slowly home in pouring rain, a toddler asleep in the backseat. "_I'm coming home to you, coming home,_" he sings in the background as the car arrives safely at the house, where the porch light is on against the darkness, the grandparents waiting by the door.

I don't think it's a coincidence.

I sit on the couch with my sketchbook much as I did a little more than a week ago, before Angela called me and ended my world. I stare at the drawing of the eyes in the woods. "Is that you?" I whisper. "Are you ready to wake up?"

I begin to sketch, not paying attention, and when I look down, I see I've drawn myself, but my dress has changed. It's longer, not looking like a huntress's garment. What does it mean?

I know I've done nothing today but sleep and wander and eat crackers, but I start nodding off. I'm afraid to go to sleep, so I try to fight it, try to force my eyelids open. But I can't, hearing only in my head _his_ voice, "_I'm coming home to you, coming home_."

* * *

I'm curled up on my side beneath Seth's tree. James must have returned me from his realm. I get up slowly, my muscles stiff and sore from the cold ground. My dress has changed. The skirt flows down past my ankles, skimming the grass. I have sleeves now, long, diaphanous sleeves, like moth wings or moonlight.

_I can be a hero_, I think.

Leah's prickly pear cactus shifts in the wind. The hot pink blossoms sway back and forth like heavy heads shaking _no_. She doesn't think I should do it. But why have my clothes changed? Am I now dressed for this sacrifice? The wind whips my long sleeves around, and I feel light as a bird. I am not afraid.

I climb the highest tower of the Citadel, where I often faced down the Stone One. I bested him, and now it is my turn to meet my end.

_They're just dreams_, I think. _Don't be afraid_. I stand on the ledge, and I make the mistake of looking down. It's like being in a plane again, this height. I shouldn't be afraid here, not in this moment. If I'm afraid, maybe it won't count. I don't know. I scramble to get back from the ledge, but my toe catches in a gap in the battlements, and I lose my balance.

I windmill my arms to try to stay on top of the castle's keep, but it's no use. I plummet headfirst to the ground, my sleeves and skirt fluttering after me. I think that I must look beautiful in this moment, like a falling star. I don't make a sound as I fall.

The ground is hard and unforgiving, and I feel so much pain that I no longer can see. Then the world turns to white, and I fade away.

Everything hurts. I can barely breathe. I feel completely broken. But if I'm breathing … maybe I didn't do it right. I hear a low chuckling.

"Isabella, did you think it would be that easy?"

I know that voice. I push myself up to sitting and open my eyes. I'm on the floor of our meeting room in the realm of the Eternal.

"What?" I croak. I keep swallowing and clearing my throat, trying to make my voice work.

"You can't give up your life here. You can't be harmed here, not permanently," he says. "But an A for effort." He does this little golf applause thing that seems obnoxious coming from him, since he's not even human. Doubly obnoxious, because it's carefully studied behavior, applied sarcasm and mockery.

"I had to try," I say, being honest and trying to stand up.

"Then you are not truly ready," he says, turning his back to me.

"But I am. I am ready," I insist, walking up to him and straightening out my skirts.

"You're not afraid?"

"I … I am afraid, but I am still ready."

"Hmm," he says, turning back to me and tapping his finger on his chin. "It's an awfully big thing you need to do, Archer."

"You promise me you can waken the Sleeper?"

"I already have promised."

My head is spinning, maybe from the fall, maybe from everything I've been through here in this world where I used to have power, where I used to find companionship. I look over at the dais and Jacob's heart under the bell jar.

I say in a tiny voice, "I don't want to die."

And I begin to cry.

I don't want to cry in front of him. I don't want to seem weak. But it's the truth. I _don't_ want to die. Even though my life feels worthless, I still want it. I want to hold onto it. I think of Anna Karenina and her little red purse right before she throws herself under the train. The tower thing was just an experiment, a test to see. And deep down I knew it wouldn't count.

"What would give you courage, pet?" he says, crouching beside me, still looking all too divine in his attempt to appear human-like.

I try not to focus on the intense creepiness of James' calling me _pet_. "I need to know this is real," I say. "I _need_ to know. I want to see _him_."

"I can't do that," he says. "But I may be able to send you a sign. Would you like a sign?"

"A sign?" I repeat stupidly.

James appears lost in thought, eyes unfocused as he thinks. He murmurs quickly to himself, his eyelids fluttering, his fingers twitching in the air. Slowly his eyes refocus on my face, and he says, "You will meet someone in your world, someone close, and then you will know that I keep my word.

"Remember, Isabella, I ask you these things not because I relish your pain or wish to see you suffer. You have asked me a favor, and these are the things the universe requires. I am not all-powerful. I make mistakes. I have weaknesses. These tasks, as painful as they are for you, are merely the requirements, the _ingredients_ for me to grant you your wish. I am beholden to grant you your wish, and this is why I ask these things of you."

I nod glumly.

"Now, come. Stand up. Ready yourself," he says. "I'd offer you my hand, but I may not touch the elements involved in granting your boon."

"Ready myself?"

"You need to go back down the Bridge. And you need to hurry."

"Why?" I'm tired of his riddles and rules and commands.

"Because your father is calling. Go!"

He exhales loudly, and the room starts to crumble and disintegrate, becoming brighter and brighter as I run for the Bridge Between, my dress fluttering behind me like a ghost.

I can hear the phone ringing as I sprint across the Bridge, trying not to trip on the hem of my dress. I'm not used to running in this. My bones no longer ache, healed already by the air here.

* * *

I wake up on the couch, my face on top of the sketchbook. The phone still rings, and I pick up. "Hi, Dad," I say sleepily without even looking at caller ID.

"Bells?" he says. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, Dad," I say. "I just … missed you. I wanted to hear your voice."

I can hear Charlie swallow hard, even through the phone. I know he's feeling awkward. "Well, here I am," he says a little too cheerily.

I laugh sleepily. "Dad, you sound like you're making jazz hands."

He barks out a laugh in reply. "Now, Bells, you know I don't even know what those are."

"Ask Diana to show you," I say. "I bet she'd know. She sounds nice."

"Yep," he says, and I can just see him bobbing his head up and down. "She's a real nice girl. Hardworking."

"Who's a nice girl?" I hear Diana say in the background.

"Kind of nosy though," Charlie adds pointedly, and I can just see the patented Charlie glare. Diana blows him a raspberry. She must be standing right at his elbow. "Now that's disgusting, Diana," Charlie says, but I can hear that he's smiling.

I'm glad he's having a good time in his office. It makes me feel less worried about him.

"I miss you, Dad," I say again.

Charlie is silent for a long while, and then he sighs, "Me too, kid, me too."

"I'll come home again for Easter," I say, not knowing why. It just comes out.

"That would be real nice." I'm not sure he believes me either. I've made these promises before.

I wish I could hug him, feel his five o'clock shadow on his cheek, like that page in _Pat the Bunny_ with the sandpaper. Voices alone aren't enough. They're never enough. They aren't the same as a warm body in front of you.

"Well," I say, "I guess I should let you go do your thing, you know, protecting the good people of Forks and all."

"It's real nice to hear your voice, Bells."

"Love you, Dad."

"You too, kid."

I hate to do it, but I hang up the phone. Otherwise we'd be sitting in silence for hours, listening to each other breathe, wanting to say the things we really mean but are unable to put into words. I don't want him to feel awkward in front of other people like that. I spare him the embarrassment.

I've got a huge lump in my throat that won't go away, and I blink back tears. _How can you think of leaving Charlie?_ I berate myself. _What would he do without you? You're all he has_.

It's too much to have to make another choice like that. Jacob was hard enough. It's not being selfish to hold onto my life. I can live for Charlie. But then I look at the new picture I've drawn while I was sleeping. I'm wearing the new dress from the dreaming, but I'm out in the streets of Boston—no, wait, over the river on the Cambridge side of things. I recognize this street, right in the middle of Longfellow Square, a side street paved with cobblestones. _I need to be here. Now_. I don't know how I know, but I do.

Maybe this is my sign.

I peel my fleece and pajamas off and get dressed as quickly as I can, rushing out the door to catch the T, the Green Line to the Red Line, right into the Square.

I slam the door behind me, not realizing until I'm halfway to Hynes that my hands are smudged with graphite. I pull my mittens over my dirty fingers, already red from the cold, and I find myself thinking of that old riddle, "What's black and white and red all over?"

Maybe my problem is that I keep wanting to know the answer to all my questions, when I am the answer.

I'm not sure what this means, exactly, but it feels important. I am the answer. Me. Whatever that might mean.

I run into the swinging doors of Hynes station, hearing the screech of trains as they arrive.

_Er kommt! Er kommt!_* I find myself muttering. That's odd. German. I don't understand half the things that go through my head these days.

But I do know one thing:

My sign is waiting on the other side of the river.

* * *

*He comes! He comes!

**

* * *

A/N: She breastfeeds the old starving hobo!**

**Okay, first of all, there is a wee little one-shot of Seth's POV about what happens to him after the Stone One chomps him up. It is fluffy and light, and just the thing if this story is getting you down. Go check it out in my profile. It was written for the awesome bsmog for bidding on a drabble from me in the Support Stacie auction.**

**Eventually more outtakes may come—some may have to wait until this whole story is over, but if you have suggestions or requests, let me know.**

**And, oh yeah! Follow me on Twitter, feistyybeden!**


	25. TwentyFour: She Seeks the Sign

**A/N: Home stretch, peeps. Are you ready?**

**Love and sugarlumps to my Rav girls, Algie, phila, Twitter friends, and all who've recced me out there: TLYDF, Fictionators, Gazebo, IMDb RPattz board, and that children's clothing thing board (I finally think I know what AG was talking about)! I'm overwhelmed. And once again, behind on reviews. But I'll get there, I will! Lo giuro! **

**Thanks as always to my fabulous Twi-beta, Twilightzoner.**

**Disclaimer: [Insert humorous disclaimer here.]**

**

* * *

Twenty-Four: She Seeks the Sign**

It feels like the gods are with me as I travel to Cambridge. When I get to Park Street, the Red Line is waiting on the platform, and it's even one of those rare express trains going straight to Longfellow Square, which happens only when there's a backlog of trains stuck behind this one. _Hurry, hurry, hurry_, I seem to hear in my head, and I manage not to slip on the floor of the subway car, slick with melted snow.

The car is crowded, so I stand, facing the left-hand windows. It's my favorite view of Boston, looking toward the Prudential and the Hancock Tower as we cross the Charles River. I remember the first time I took the Red Line into the city, and I couldn't believe there was such beauty for free, visible from something so common, so _mundane_, as a subway car. I love looking out the window in the spring and summer, when sailboats dot the river, looking like doves on the sapphire blue water. As we cross now, however, the river is frozen, covered with snow. I can barely see the Boston skyline because of the fogged windows.

I wish I could see sailboats.

I take one of the side exits once we get to Longfellow Square. It's always a little strange for me to come back here. Since moving to the other side of the river, I rarely come back, preferring to compartmentalize my college experience. It was a special time, a time when I felt I was on the cusp of something wonderful. When I come back here, I get tiny flashbacks of hope, of awe, twinges that I still might transform into something greater. If I came here every day, I'd lose that, I think. This place would become integrated with my present self. I don't want to combine the memories of this place with the person I am now. _Diagnosis: Failure to thrive_.

So I save these visits. I rarely even walk through Longfellow's quad, because I want it to remain like a museum, or a time capsule, or like Colonial Williamsburg. When I step through the wrought iron gates, I want to feel transported, like walking through a time machine right into the past, back to a time when I believed anything was possible. I avoid the main quad even now, heading instead for the cobblestoned alleyway from my drawing.

I've got a sign to find.

And if I find it, I will have to trust James. Everything in me screams that I should not, but I am giving him a chance. Not because I want to believe the best of him, but because I desperately need _something_ to help me complete this final task. He said it would give me courage, something I am sorely lacking.

I'm shivering, and I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering as I take careful steps down the snow-packed sidewalk to the cobblestoned alleyway in my dream-sketch. As soon as I pass the movie theater, I can hear it: strains of music in the otherwise quiet, cold night, rays of warmth reaching out like tendrils of smoke into the street. I close my eyes and follow the burn, right to Club Flotsam, a small venue for folk and acoustic rock.

It's not the typical folk music I've heard the off times I've wandered down this street during a concert. I'm used to guitars, maybe a keyboard, but tonight I hear the mournful velvet tones of a cello. The rich threads of music pull me from my belly, much like I was pulled into the church where Edward Cullen was playing, and I find myself going down the stairs to the entrance of the club.

The concert is just starting, and I pay for a ticket at the door and squeeze inside. As I walk into the main room, I lock eyes with the man with the cello on the tiny stage at the far wall. He looks at me with such intensity that I look behind me, certain he must be seeing someone else.

There's no one behind me. He's looking at me. Me.

He finishes the song to polite applause, clears his throat, and thanks us for coming. "This is my first concert since … the accident," he says, still looking right at me. "I don't know if you heard on the news, but my good friend and colleague, the amazingly talented Edward Cullen, was killed in a plane crash about two weeks ago."

All the air escapes my lungs, and I have to hold onto the back of the nearest chair. I know him. I know _of_ him, rather—Edward Cullen's friend playing cello on his MySpace tracks.

"Once again, my name is Jasper Whitlock. Thanks for coming tonight." And he starts his next song. He plays the cello like I've never seen, his fingers flying around, the bow on the strings at times, at times tapping against the wood of the cello, turning the beautiful instrument into an ersatz drum kit. He stomps his foot on the ground, his blonde hair falls in his eyes, and I get a shiver as I see his neck inclined like a statue of the Madonna, bending over the cello and wringing out his grief through strong strokes of his bow.

Everyone else can feel it, I think. The atmosphere is quiet, meditative, respectful, like at a Good Friday service.

I'm crying just listening to his song, his voice wrapping around the sorrow pouring out as horsehair touches string. It's like we are connected. _He understands what it's like to lose Edward Cullen, to lose him as an outsider_, I think, except I'm aware that at least he _knew_ Edward and that Edward knew him. Still, it makes me feel less alone to feel his pain expressed in song. Maybe it's not the same as my pain, but they are from the same family, the same tree of grief. Just different branches.

I feel like we are the only people in the room, and I think Jasper knows it too. He starts playing a familiar riff on the strings in that rich lower register that seems to rumble in my chest. His notes spin and wrap around me like a mantle, like swaddling clothes, but when he starts singing, I am completely immobilized.

"_It's late in the evening / She's wondering what clothes to wear / She puts on her makeup / And brushes her long brown hair_…"

Now, I know those lyrics are wrong. I know it should be "long blonde hair." I know, because over the years I have listened to "Wonderful Tonight" over and over and over again, trying to remember the feeling of Edward Cullen's fingers on my back, wondering if his fingertips were rough and callused, wondering what they would feel like clasped in my hands or brushed along my cheek. But Jasper won't stop looking at me as he sings, and I wonder how he can play the cello without seeing what his fingers are doing.

As he stares at me, I wonder if the lyrics flub is a mistake, a slip of the tongue, or a deliberate change. I find myself swaying from side to side, as if I'm back in the gymnasium, swathed in secondhand velvet, dancing with the back of the chair I've been leaning on in the club, clutching tightly so I don't float away from this room. I don't even feel like I'm really here.

But then again, do I ever?

His Clapton cover ends, and there is a brief, awed hush before the audience applauds enthusiastically but respectfully—no hooting or table pounding. We all know that _something_ has happened just now, something important, spiritual. We've witnessed this moment.

He balances his bow on his knee and says, "I, um … that wasn't part of the set-list. I just, wow, I don't know what came over me." He is silent a second, trying to collect himself, closing his eyes and breathing deeply long enough that people in the audience grow uncomfortable, shifting in their seats and coughing. Finally, he raises his head and takes the bow back into his hand.

He plays his own music for the rest of the set, and I am amazed, again, at the different tones, the different styles of music he's able to coax from his cello. I wish I'd gotten to see Edward Cullen and this Jasper Whitlock play together live. It must have been incredible, each of them feeding off the other.

When the concert is over, something tells me to linger. I wait for his fans and well-wishers to dissipate, and he looks up at me as I lean against the exposed brick on the other side of the room. The club manager comes over to congratulate him, but he shakes his hand briefly and says, "I have to get going."

He makes a beeline for me. He grabs one of my hands and says, "You knew him, didn't you?"

I nod. Neither of us needs to say Edward's name out loud.

"I could see it in your face when you walked in. I knew that look. I … I felt something, almost like a whispering in my ear."

I slip my hand into his, and my face crumples into tears. "Your playing, it was so beautiful."

"Did you have something to do with that Clapton cover?" he asks, clutching my hand to his chest and searching my face.

"I … I don't know," I finally say, my voice faltering and timid.

He pulls me with him to the stage as he packs up his cello and amp. "Do you have anywhere to be right now?"

"I, uh … no, I guess not." _I never have anyplace to be_, I say in my head.

"Do you want to get coffee or something? I can read the grief on your face. It's like looking in a mirror. You loved him too, didn't you?"

I normally would lie, dissemble, change the subject. But something is different about him. I look him square in the face and say, "Yes. I loved him. I _love_ him. I wish …" But I can't finish my sentence.

"He was my best friend, like a brother to me," says Jasper, and he blinks back a few tears.

I want to drink him alive, to tap him of all his memories of his time with the real Edward Cullen.

"Did he … did he feel the same about you?" I ask, looking at my feet.

"What do you mean?" He's absentmindedly wrapping a long cable around his arm.

"Just … did he think of you as a brother, too?"

"Of course he did," he says, sounding almost offended. Of course Edward knew _him_.

"Oh," I say.

"Come on, let's go," he says, picking up his cello case. "Just give me five minutes to pack all this back in my van."

I sit on a rickety wooden café chair as I wait for him to clear the stage. I should probably have offered to help him, but I know I wouldn't be much help. I'd probably drop his amp into a puddle, shorting it, or at least smashing some important component inside.

I'm lost in thought, hearing Clapton in my head, when I hear someone say, "I'm ready now." I jump, startled, but of course it's just Jasper. I nod and stand up, and we leave the club.

I grimace as the cold air hits me and pull my clothes around me more tightly. "Jesus," I say under my breath. "Are you from here? Does the cold bother you?"

"Went to school here, but I'm from Texas, so I never got used to it."

I'd say something back, but my jaw is clenched too hard against the cold.

"Are you a coffee snob?" he asks, and I shake my head. "There's a Starbucks across the street. Let's just duck in there so we don't have to be in this monkeyfucking cold anymore."

We dash across the street and up the stairs into the Starbucks. I stamp my feet by the entrance, trying to kick all the snow off, and Jasper looks at me with a sad smile, shaking his head. "Finished?" he asks as I stop stomping.

"Yeah."

He gestures to let me pass in front of him to order. "Can I get a hot chocolate? Like, whatever is large? Is that the venti?" I say to the bored barista behind the counter.

"Just give me the House Blend, black, venti," orders Jasper smoothly. He turns to me. "Want anything to eat?"

"No, I'm good," I say, even though I'm pretty sure I didn't eat anything but crackers today.

As the barista rings us up, I reach for my wallet, but Jasper said, "No, I've got this." The amount comes to something and two cents, and Jasper digs in his pockets. "Fuck, I hate pennies," he mumbles, coming up empty-handed.

"I've got some," I offer, and I put two pennies in his hand.

"Much obliged," he says with a tip of an imaginary hat.

The coffeehouse is fairly empty, as it's almost closing time, so we're able to get some of the comfy chairs. I wrap my hands around the cup and breathe in the steam from the hot milk. I still feel cold. I feel like I'll never be warm again.

I think how strange it is that I'm sitting in a Starbucks with Edward Cullen's collaborator, within spitting distance of Longfellow University. There are too many worlds colliding at once. I don't know what to say, so I stare out the window.

"How did you know Edward?" asks Jasper.

"I, uh, we went to school together, sort of," I say. "Junior high and high school. He gave me an apple sticker once," I add stupidly. "How about you?" I know exactly how he met Edward, but I ask anyway, because I don't want to creep him out. I want him to keep talking to me about Edward Cullen.

"I met him at conservatory, in a jazz improv class," he says. "We ended up playing a wedding gig through the school together, and then we decided to keep collaborating. He was a genius."

"Yeah, he was," I say, looking at the reflection of the overhead lights in my cocoa, still too hot to drink. "I loved watching him play," I admit. "I would sneak glances when I thought no one was looking. It was the most beautiful thing in the world, to see the kind of passion he had … the way his face would light up when he was _in it_. You could tell the rest of the world disappeared for him."

"Music's like that," Jasper nods. "It's funny. It's when I feel the most alive, when I can escape the grief. But it's also when I feel the grief the most, when I can hear the parts in my head that Edward would have been playing." His voice starts to waver. I don't want him to cry in front of me, so I put my cup down and reach for his hand.

"I'm sorry," I say, as if those words can adequately describe what I'm feeling.

"I just can't believe he's gone. Just like that. And you know something crazy? I was supposed to be on that flight too."

"Where … where were you going?"

"We had a gig in Philadelphia. We'd just finished up a couple gigs in Chicago, but I had gotten food poisoning and missed the flight. I was going to fly out later, catch up with him there." He shakes his head. "I don't know why I'm alive and he's not."

"Why does anything happen?" I say, letting go of his hand and drawing my knees up to my chest in the armchair.

The Starbucks manager comes to our table and says, "Sorry, guys, we're closing now."

Jasper and I nod and hurry to finish our drinks. My cocoa is cool enough to drink down in one big gulp, but Jasper leaves his coffee almost untouched. I bundle back up, wrapping my scarf around my neck several times.

"Where are you headed now?" Jasper asks.

"Home, I guess."

"Need a lift? My van is just back there, behind the club."

I'm about to decline, but he's my first living, speaking connection with Edward. I can't bear to leave him. "Sure, that would be great, thanks."

Jasper's van is littered with fast food wrappers and empty soda bottles. "Sorry about that," he shrugs as he holds the passenger door open for me.

The van is freezing, and Jasper cranks the heat on full power. We don't try to talk over the whirring of the fan. As the heat begins to kick in, he turns it down to a reasonable level and begins to drive down the cobblestoned alleyway. I don't say much except to give him directions back to my place. We drive over the Charles River back into Boston, and I try to look at the view. I can make out the old Citgo sign and the steady blue light on top of the old Hancock building. No snow tonight, then.

"I hope I never get tired of that view," I say. Jasper nods, focusing on the road.

It always amazes me how small the city is when you travel by car. It usually takes me an hour to get from Longfellow Square to my apartment, but even with the roads narrowed by piles of ploughed snow, we're at my front door in about twenty minutes.

"Thanks," I say, unbuckling my seat belt. "It … it was good to talk to you, I mean, about him."

"Yeah," he says. "I haven't met anyone else who understands, so thank you for that."

My hand lingers on the door handle. "Do you want to come inside for a minute?"

"Yeah," he breathes, resting his head for a moment on the steering wheel.

If I weren't sure he's the sign promised by James before, there's no doubt in my mind now when a car pulls out of the one visitor's spot in front of my building as we're talking. He parks the van, and we both hop out.

I don't know what is going to happen when we go inside. I don't know what I want to happen. But I do know that I feel this connection with him, that _he_ is my sign. I need courage. Maybe he'll be able to make me brave.

We get inside, and the heat is almost unbearable. "These old apartments can't seem to hold a steady temperature," I say, peeling off layers and dropping them on the floor. "Just … drop your crap anywhere. It's cool."

Jasper folds his coat and sweater carefully and places them on my desk chair.

We sit on my sofa. "Tell me about him," I beg. "Tell me what he was like as … you know, all grown up."

"Geez," Jasper says, running his hands through his hat-head hair, "I don't know. He was wickedly funny, a nice guy, and the best musician I've ever met."

This isn't enough. "Tell me something that no one else would know about him. Not like a secret, but just something mundane."

Jasper thinks a minute. "He … he really liked Spaghetti-Os right out of the can. We called him Boxcar Eddie because of it."

I laugh, even though my eyes are welling with tears. "Boxcar Eddie," I repeat. "I love it." I blink, and the tears streak down my face.

Jasper brushes a tear away with the back of his hand, and I lean into him. "Tell me something else," I say with desperation as he inches toward me. I close my eyes and picture Edward Cullen eating Spaghetti-Os out of a can.

He whispers against my forehead, "He liked to play pranks on people."

"Yeah?" I sigh as he brings his mouth to mine. "What kind of pranks?"

He kisses the corners of my mouth and says, "Before an orchestra concert, he once replaced my bow with a riding crop."

"Oh my god," I laugh, even as I keep crying. "What happened?"

"Oh, as soon as he saw me panic, he gave me my bow back." Jasper's face is wet, and I think I must have cried all over him, but when I open my eyes I see that he's crying too.

"I didn't know he could be such a prick," I say, smiling. "Did you get him back?"

"I _may_ have stolen all his boxers while he was in the shower and left him only a pair of exceptionally fabulous manties I'd purchased especially for him. He was getting ready for a date," he says.

I know it's not rational, but I feel a pang of jealousy thinking of Edward on a date, when I was living in the same city. But still, the image of Edward in some crazy male underwear model manties has me laughing and sobbing at once. I know it's a losing battle, but I try to clean my face up, rubbing my hand over my cheeks.

"Wait, you just got something on your face," he says. He looks at my hands. "What's this?"

"Oh." I realize I never washed the graphite off my hands. "I was drawing before I went to the club."

"You're an artist?" he asks.

"Not really," I say. I get up to wash my hands and face. In the bathroom, I look at myself, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks splotchy. I'm a mess. _What are you doing, Bella?_ I ask my reflection, but she shrugs back at me.

"Better?" I ask, and Jasper nods.

"Now you tell me something," Jasper says.

"I … I didn't know him enough to tell you something," I say, twisting my hands in my lap. He stops them with his hand.

"Please," he begs. "Talk to me about him."

"I loved him," I say. "I don't know why. I think about him all the time. I wish I'd had the guts to walk up to him and say, 'You amaze me. Every day, you amaze me.' And now I'll never have the chance."

Jasper plays with my fingers, and his fingertips are callused on one hand, smooth on the other. I cry more because I wonder what Edward's hands were like, how they'd feel on my bare skin.

"I'm terrified of flying, but I went back to Washington for his memorial," I offer. "His parents, his family—they all looked at me, and they didn't even know who I was. They knew who you were, didn't they?"

"I … I went home with Edward for Thanksgiving once. My folks were in Europe, and his parents couldn't bear the thought of my being in Boston alone for the holiday. So, yeah, I guess they knew me," he says almost guiltily.

"Yeah," is all I manage to get out before I'm sobbing again.

"Shh," says Jasper, holding me against him. "It doesn't matter. You loved him. This?" he says, brushing another tear away from my cheek. "You feel the grief that rips my heart open every day. So it doesn't matter if his family knew or not. Somehow, the universe knew. Somehow, I'm sure he knew too."

"Ha," I say bitterly.

He talks past me, as if I'm not even there. "Every day I wake up thinking I'm going to see him."

"Me too."

"I keep thinking it's a bad dream that I'll wake up from. I think of all the songs we had left to write together, all the gigs we were going to do …" He trails off, his face twisted with grief and regret.

"Do you know Tanya?" I ask. I'm partially trying to distract him, but I also really want to hear about her from someone who has met her, seen her with his own eyes.

He nods.

"Oh," I say. "Is she nice? I want him to be with someone nice."

"She's great, actually. They never fought, and she's a brilliant musician too."

"Good," I say, my mouth in a tight line. "I'm glad he was happy." And I mean it, even if I'm sobbing more through my words.

"He was. He was loved."

"Yeah," I say again, and I think if I died, if anyone would say the same of me. Was I ever loved like that?

But before I can think more, Jasper has pulled me up to standing, and we're kissing. He leads me to the bed. This sudden passion is weird, but it's like he was talking about his playing—that it makes the pain less, but at the same time all he's thinking about is his pain. Just the human contact, the physical act of being loved, distracts me from the ache in my heart, and the whole time we are kissing desperately, all I think about is Edward. _Edward, Edward, Edward_, my heart beats against Jasper's chest.

I've never done anything like this, had a moment of intimacy so tinged with mutual sorrow. But I think we understand each other. This is our way to grieve, our way to remember. The only thing that connects us is our love for Edward, and when I look into his eyes, I can almost see Edward. Or maybe it's just my grief reflected back at me. I don't know.

"Tell me something else," I ask, even as we're a mess of unbuttoned clothing and sweat.

"He was afraid of blue food," Jasper whispers.

"Blue food?" I barely am able to pant out.

"You know, like blue Gatorade and stuff. It freaked him out. Something about the Smurfs? I don't know."

"Thank you," I say, and we cling to each other like we're on a capsizing boat. With each thrust, I can see Edward more clearly, Edward the adult, Edward the prankster, Edward the loved. "Thank you," I say again as Jasper groans and flops on his side away from me. "I know this didn't mean anything," I say before he can try to make up excuses. "I know this wasn't about me. I know this wasn't about love."

Jasper dresses, straightens his clothes. He's about to interrupt me, but I stop him.

"No, really. It's all right. I was meant to see you. You were meant to find me. I think this had to happen. I understand now, and I think I am ready."

"It's … that's not …"

"You know this was about him. It's okay," I say, pulling on my pajama top. "I'm glad. I really am."

"I miss him," he says, giving up trying to explain. He stares at his socks.

"I know." I turn to look out the window for a minute at the Boston night sky, strangely lit orange and purple all at once. "You should go now."

He gathers up his things, and I just stay on the bed and watch him. He fumbles with the deadbolt on the door, so I finally get up to let him out.

"Thanks for finding me tonight," I say, holding the door open.

"Wait, I don't even know your name," Jasper says, almost touching my cheek but drawing his hand back.

"It's Bella. Bella Swan," I say, and he has a strange look on his face as he nods, taking in the information.

"Goodnight, Bella Swan," he says, turning and starting down the stairs.

I watch out the window as he gets into his van and drives away, leaving me in silence and darkness again.

I understand now.

And I am ready.

**

* * *

A/N: It was the creepy dude at the book signing!**

**Okay. I am putting on my flame-retardant pants. I'm a little afraid. I hope you understand what I was trying to do here.**

**And apologies in advance to Freed Eagle, PI. Twirlgrrl, if you get to this first, tell him which part to skip. You'll know when you get to it.**


	26. TwentyFive: She Counts, Tasting of Sugar

**A/N: We're almost done with this crazy ride. Almost! Are you ready?**

**My usual dry humps of twue wuv to my Rav girls, Algie, phila, Twitter friends, and all who've recced me out there: TLYDF, Fictionators, Gazebo, IMDb RPattz board, Gymbo-friends (is that right?), and WA Rehab! Let me know if I've forgotten anyone!**

**Thanks as always to my fabulous Twi-beta, Twilightzoner.**

**PLEASE NOTE: DARKETY THEMES AHEAD. DO NOT PROCEED IF THE DARKETY THEMES MAKE YOU, IN TURN, DO DARKETY THINGS TO YOURSELF.**

**Disclaimer: [Insert humorous disclaimer here.]**

**

* * *

Twenty-Five: She Counts, Tasting of Sugar**

I sit in my pajama top on my bed for a bit after Jasper leaves, just thinking. The bed is a mess. I finally get up and straighten the sheets, tuck the corners in, pick up my comforter from the floor. We must have kicked it off while we … my mind gets fuzzy when I refer to Jasper and me as a "we." We aren't a _we_. And yet, there _we_ were, he and I, in this bed, still warm from when our two bodies joined.

_Did you feel anything, Bella?_ a voice seems to say in my head. Is it my voice? Is it the Eternal's, taunting me? Is it … someone—or some_thing_—else?

It can't have been more than ten minutes since he drove away, and I am unable to remember what I was feeling, at least physically. Certainly I felt, in that moment, that my grief had found a mirror, that his grief somehow completed my grief. It was nice to know I wasn't alone. I'm reminded of a fairy tale I read long ago about a woman made of sugar and a man made of salt who often quarreled. One day he'd chased her out of their salt home, so she was forced to live in a house of clay. And then the rains came, washing away his house. The salt man almost melted away too, but the woman took pity and let him into her home. He apologized, and they kissed passionately. But they were fused together from rain and tears. When they finally were able to pull apart, he tasted of sweet, and she tasted of salt, and they never fought again.[1]

I'm nearing the end of this journey. I can feel it. All the lights are off, but I've drawn up my blinds so the light from the streetlamps outside filters in. I look at my hands, ghostly in the artificial light. It seems a waste to go to sleep, when I know what I have to do, and yet, I slip under the sheets and lay my head upon my pillow, which smells slightly of Jasper, of _other_. His salt on my sweet.

* * *

I don't know why I bother coming back here. There's nothing left for me now. The dreaming is a wasteland again, once again through no one's fault but my own. Why was I brought back to rebuild, only to destroy everything again? What was, or is, my purpose here? In coming back? In remembering the pain?

The sun is hidden, the skies gray, and a chill is in the air. The color is fading from here, leached out, like an untouched coloring book. Even the grass is looking gray, almost as if it were made of stone. I'm still dressed in this long gown, the sleeves fluttering behind me in the constant breeze. "Hello?" I call out, knowing no one will answer me.

"Hello?" I say louder, wishing even for just my voice to echo back. I hear rustling in the woods where Jacob is buried, and I'm not sure if it's a person, a thing, or just the wind waiting for me there.

_Let me say goodbye to him_, I think, making my way into the forest. Jacob's strange tree, the instrument of his death, is still there, blooming its ruby blossoms, undulating strangely in the wind. I hear a twig snap, and my head pops up, trying to make out anything, a shadow, dark eyes, anything. _Eyes I dare not meet in dreams_.[2]

Of course there is nothing here. I am alone. I pat the earth on top of Jacob and kneel, not caring if I muddy up my long gown. "I miss you. And I am sorry. But I'm going to make it worth something. Thank you. I couldn't have done any of this without you. I don't deserve your love."

I look up one more time to see if there's anyone here, if by chance someone has stayed behind, has survived. I wait a few moments, folding my hands as if in prayer, hoping. But eventually I get up, brush the dirt off my dress, and head back to the courtyard, back to Seth and Leah, or, at least, my tangible memory of them. Leah's prickly pear blossoms have faded too. They look frosted over. Seth's stark, bare branches against the dull sky remind me of a skeleton, and I have trouble remembering what it was like here when I first returned. Even though the Citadel had crumbled away, nature was wild, free, alive.

The dreaming is now just a graveyard. A waiting place. Another in-between.

I wonder if this is what _forever_ is like, me stuck in a place like this, alone, without any visible joy or color. I guess I'll know soon. The thought of it, how soon it's all going to happen, makes my head all swirly. But you know what? At least I won't be afraid anymore. At least I'll _know_. At least it will be over. And that, in itself, is a comfort.

"_Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once."_

Only one more to go.

Against the cold, I wrap my arms around my middle, remembering the feel of Jasper's body pressed against mine, skin to skin, grief to grief. Salt to sugar, sugar to salt, fused together. Momentarily complete.

I whisper to myself, "_Between the desire / And the spasm / Between the potency And the existence / Between the essence / And the descent / Falls the Shadow_."[3] It's my way of whistling in the dark, giving my fear voice through old words that existed long before I was born and will live on long after I am gone. I whisper the words over and over like a mantra or a prayer, "_Between the desire / And the spasm …_"

I can hear low chuckling.

"So you _did_ enjoy that, didn't you, Isabella?"

James.

I look around, behind me, up and down, trying to find him. "Where are you?" I demand.

"I'm where I always am," he says.

"But I can't see you."

"You don't need to see me, because I can see you."

It occurs to me that his words are no longer _spoken_—now they seem to form right in my head. Since when could he do that?

"Oh, I always could, you know. I just thought it would be more … comfortable for you if I spoke aloud."

"And now?" I ask, trying not to show my fear and unease that he seems to be able to peer into my mind and pluck out thoughts as if he's making a selection out of a box of chocolates, taking little half-bites to see if he wants to take the whole thought or keep looking for a better one.

"Well, you're nearly done now, aren't you? Your comfort, well, it's going to be irrelevant soon enough. I thought taking away this part of the charade would help you in the transition."

I lean back against Seth's bare tree, trying to find strength, trying to let his trunk be my backbone. "I … I am ready," I say, not sure if I mean it or not.

"Good. Because time is running out. And, as I can hear you realizing, there's no need for you to voice your thoughts. I've always been able to hear them."

"I would prefer to speak them out loud, if you don't mind," I say, my hands balled into fists. "I'm looking after my own comfort, thank you." I can feel the bark of Seth's tree through the thin fabric of this white gown, and the pain of it somehow makes me feel stronger: a fighter, a warrior. I _am_ a warrior, aren't I?

More chuckling. "Of course, Little Maiden, Little Archer. It _is_ funny, though, the difference between what you say out loud and what tinkles around in that complicated little mind of yours."

I hate him. I hate him for invading my privacy. I want to blame him for everything that has happened here. I want him out of my mind.

"'_Between the desire / And the spasm_,' Isabella?" he mocks. "There wasn't too much time between the two, was there? That is, if what I'm seeing in your memories is accurate. Still, I was true to my word, was I not?"

"Did you make that happen?" I gasp. "Was he real?"

"Of course he was real." James sounds irritated. "Do you doubt what I am capable of?"

"I suppose not," I say.

"There's not much time left," he says. "You need to wake up now. And you need to finish your journey."

The wind whips up, pinning me against Seth's tree, the white silky fabric wrapping almost all the way around, blowing stronger, until the tree cracks in half with a sound like a bat breaking at Fenway Park.

* * *

I wake up with my arms wrapped tightly around my middle. I am freezing. The wind is rattling the old windows, letting February's bite seep right through. I touch the radiator by the bed. Ice cold. The heat's shut off again. Always too hot or too cold. Strangely, it's the one thing I wish I had in between: the temperature inside this apartment. But again, no matter. Soon these things will be irrelevant. Soon I'll feel nothing.

I _hope_ I'll feel nothing.

What do I do? Am I supposed to leave a note, an explanation? No one would believe me if I did.

I think of Charlie.

I think of Rosalie.

Am I strong enough?

I glance at the time. It's late, but maybe not too late to call Charlie. I need to hear his voice one more time, because I don't want to forget. I don't want to forget the tickly feeling of his mustache on my face as I peck his cheek. I don't want to forget how safe I feel when my hand is in his. His hands are always warm, powered, no doubt, by his huge, loving heart.

I dial the house, and the phone rings and rings and rings. I get voicemail, Charlie's awkward message. "This, uh, you've reached the Swans. I can't figure out this dang thing." Muffled fumbling. "I guess you're supposed to leave a [_beep_]." It's so _Charlie_ that I never tire of listening to it, never fail to smile when I hear his technophobe befuddlement.

I hang up. I don't know what to say. How do you say goodbye forever? How do I sum up in sixty seconds how much he is my hero, my rock, my life?

How can I leave him?

_You already left him, Bella_, I tell myself. _You left him the minute you walked out of his car at SeaTac. You knew you'd never be brave enough for him, never brave enough to come home again_.

It's true, and I know it.

Rosalie. It's too late to call her for sure.

Against my better judgment, I send her a text: **Rosie, U R my favorite dirty h00r**.

I get out of bed and stretch, jump up and down a few times to try to warm up. My phone pings as Rosalie texts me: **You should know, you connoisseur of dirty h00rs**.

I text back: **Shouldn't that be "connoiseuse"?**

She responds with: **You're a dirty French h00r.**

She's awake. I could call her. But … if I call her, I'll want to cling to life, like Anna Karenina and that stupid red bag again. She makes me escape my head, and, while I need that most days, right now it won't help me do what I need to. But this exchange seems fitting for us, for our goodbye. It feels right.

_I am ready._

I know I've been saying that a lot, out loud, in my head, to myself, to others. I still don't entirely believe it. But maybe if I say it enough, I will begin to believe.

I've thought about the _how_ ever since James told me what the final task is. And everything seems so painful, so frightening. It's like having to fly every day for infinity.

And, just like that, I know the answer—what do I do to get on the plane? What gives me strength, or at least oblivion, when I most need it?

I scramble in the half-dark of my apartment, looking for my backpack. I dig around it, finding Rosalie's scrunchie. I slip it over my wrist. The bottle of Lorazepam is still in the front pocket from my trip to Forks. My physician gives me sixty at a time, because he believes that I would never abuse them.

I thank him in my heart for trusting me, even though I know in this moment that I am not worthy of his trust.

I count out how many are left in the bottle as I sit on the bed, letting the streetlights illuminate my hand and the ghostly white pills. I'm tipping them out little by little, and my hand starts shaking. The rest of the pills tumble to the floor, bouncing off the wooden floorboards and sounding like the scuffling and scurrying of little mice feet.

"No, no, no," I cry out in frustration. _Not now_. I let the pills in my hand trickle slowly onto the center of my bed, the covers pulled back. They glow against my dark sheets, like the pebbles Hansel leaves behind him to find his way home. I think of the airplane safety announcements at the beginning of every flight, when the attendants talk about the floor lights that will glow in the event of an emergency. _White lights lead to red lights, which lead to the emergency exits_.

Where will these lead me?

I crawl on my hands and knees by the bed, searching out the little pills and dropping them on the sheets. Does this fall under the five-second rule? Does the five-second rule even apply in this situation? I pat around under the bed, under the couch, reaching as far as my arm will allow.

Even though it would be easier, I don't want to turn on the light. My knees start to ache, and I decide to take a break to count up what I have. I sit on the floor and slide pills from one side of the mattress to the other, almost like an abacus. Counting, counting, counting.

I have forty-five pills.

Will it be enough?

Why do I feel like I'm counting out bus fare? _Is it enough for the journey?_

I go to the kitchen and fill a glass with tap water. I don't bother letting the water run for a few minutes to get cold, so when I take a sip, it's warm and tastes of the metal pipes.

This is it.

Here we go.

And … _I can't_.

Oh, I'm scared. I'm so chickenshit. _Worthless Bella. Coward Bella_.

**_No. _**

I am Warrior Bella. I can do this.

Maybe if I take some pills first, I'll feel calmer about it. I throw a few in my mouth and gulp them down with another sip of water. Then a few more, maybe five at a time. The pills are small, so it's not too horrible.

It's slow, methodical, the pills lined up. _White lights lead to red lights, which lead to the emergency exits_.

By the time I drain the glass, I'm feeling too wobbly to get up to refill it. I'm worried I'll drop it. My hand, already heavy and clumsy, tips the empty glass over as I try to set it safely on the floor, and it rolls back and forth slowly like a pendulum.

Not much time left now.

The last few pills I put in my mouth without water. They dissolve readily enough, sweet and powdery. _My sweet to his salt, his salt to my sweet_.

I'm swimming through thick air now, but I know there is one more thing I need to do. I crawl to the closet and try to pull myself up to standing. I'm unsteady, but if I lean against the doorjamb, I'm okay.

Time to unwrap the dress.

My limbs feel like they belong to someone else as I rip open the plastic. _Will it still smell like him?_ These stranger's arms touch the holy velvet, carefully unzip the dress. I get the dress off the hanger and stumble to the floor. I hold the dress up to my face and inhale deeply.

It just smells musty, that's all. It smells like me, and neglect, and years of confinement.

There's no evidence that Edward Cullen ever touched this dress, that he ever sanctified it with his hands.

I'd cry about it, but I can barely form thoughts, my brain feeling as if it's at the bottom of the ocean. I ease my uncooperative legs into the dress while I'm on the floor. All I know is that I have to put this dress on. It's the last thing I have to do. I get up on my knees to pull the dress up more. I peel the pajama top off and toss it aside. I slip my arms through the sleeves, the lining a cool caress. I tug a little to free Rosalie's scrunchie from under the velvet. I'm so dizzy now, so dizzy.

Again, it's like a stranger's—or a manikin's—arms behind me, zipping up the dress. I can't reach all the way to the top, so the dress lies open in the back, making, I'd imagine, a deep V of my skin, ghostly in the half-light of the fading moon and streetlights.

There.

Infinity awaits.

I start thinking of forever, and of nothingness, and I feel the fear again. It's sheer instinct now, like a wounded animal seeking shelter, as I pull myself on my elbows toward the bathroom. The bathtub beckons to me. _Come rest here_, it seems to say, so I crawl to the place where I began this journey a little over a week ago.

The cold porcelain is like a compress on my panicked skin. The solidness of it gives me strength. _I'm still here. I'm still here_. The side of the tub seems so tall. I peer over the edge, my hands on either side of my face. I lean my face into the scrunchie, which still smells like Rosalie. I gaze into the deep tub: white, cold, an arctic landscape. How will I ever get in?

I think of Warrior Bella, and I pull myself up, throw a leg over the edge, and fall into the tub.

I've done it. This is it.

In my fuzzy head, I think I hear Charlie's outgoing voicemail message again. "This, uh, you've reached the Swans. I can't figure out this dang thing. I guess you're supposed to leave a [_beep_]."

What message should I leave for him? But that's impossible; the phone is by my bed, out of reach, practically a world away from this secure space, my final destination. Still, what would I say to Charlie?

I whisper, "I am Warrior Bella," again and again as I try to force my eyes to stay open. My head is heavy, and I let it rest against the side of the bathtub, my lips against the cool, solid wall of the tub. I look up and notice for the first time that the underside of my soap dish is cracked. I continue to mouth _I am Warrior Bella_ against the side of the old bathtub.

_Lips that would kiss  
Form prayers to broken stone._[4]

Eliot now in my brain, Rosalie's scent in my nose, my own name on my lips, Edward's velvet shrouding me, a sweet taste on my tongue: these are the last things I remember before everything goes white.

Like an arctic landscape.

I am ready. I am ready.

_I am Warrior Bella._

* * *

[1] "Two Little Cottages," from a Greek folktale, as told by Vratislav St'ovíček, translated by Vera Gissing, in _Around the World Fairy Tales _(London: Octopus Books, 1981), 172.

[2] T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men."

[3] Ibid.

[4] Ibid.

**

* * *

A/N: The monster was Grover!**

**This is NOT the last chapter. There is still more to come. Stay with me. **

**Follow me on Twitter (feistyybeden). It's way easier for me to reply to questions and stuff over there, because FFn makes my head hurt.**


	27. TwentySix: She Is a Warrior

**A/N: This is the last chapter, friends, before the epilogue. Hang on tight.**

**Oodles and oodles of love poodles to my Rav girls, Algie, phila, Twitter friends, and all who've recced me out there: TLYDF, Fictionators, Gazebo, IMDb RPattz board, Gymbo-friends, WA Rehab, and Edwardville! Let me know if I've forgotten anyone!**

**Thanks as always to my fabulous Twi-beta, Twilightzoner.**

**All use of the word "and" in this chapter is dedicated to Kristi_28.**

**Disclaimer: [Insert humorous disclaimer here.]**

**

* * *

Twenty-Six: She Is a Warrior**

If I'm gone, I shouldn't be able to think anything, should I? I shouldn't have a concept of _me_. And yet, here I am, still sort of _me_. Everything is white, and there's not another soul around. It looks like James' kingdom, except he's not here. I can tell; I can't feel him in my head. I don't hear his mocking.

"Oh no, Isabella?"

"James!" I grind out, no longer afraid. What have I to fear now? I've done it. I've confronted death, _my_ death, head on. And I walked through the other side. "I know this isn't your domain."

"True, true," chuckles James. "You're an observant one. But foolish. Quite foolish."

"Where is the Sleeper?"

"Impatient, are we?"

"I did what you asked. Now do what I ask. Where is the Sleeper?"

"Have you? Have you done what I asked? I wouldn't be so sure." He clucks his tongue at me, an unsettling, otherworldly clicking sound, like a child's marbles dropped on a stone floor.

"I'm here now, aren't I?"

"Are you, now?" he says, amused. "Are you? Can you _see_ yourself?"

And I realize that I am just my thoughts. I look for my hands, for my body, and there is nothing.

"How can I speak if I have no body?" I ask.

"Are you really speaking? Or do you just believe you are?"

"I … I don't know," I say, trying to see or identify anything. But it's all white and brightness around me. How am I even _seeing_?

"Where is the Sleeper?" I demand again.

"Still sleeping," he says, laughing. "You haven't completed the third task, Isabella. You're stuck."

"What?" Now I am getting panicky. "What do you mean, _I'm stuck_? Where am I? What is this?"

"You're in between, Isabella."

Fantastic. I'm on some sort of jetway to eternity. Maybe this is my own version of hell, never to be one place or another, and to have failed in my mission. And it _was_—it _was_ a mission. I believe it's why I was brought here. I am the instrument to relieve the pain of this grieving mother, this lonely girl.

Why couldn't I live for Charlie, for Rosalie?

I'm not sure.

Maybe part of me wanted to save the me that died when Renee left. If I could prevent the heartache and destruction of abandonment for someone else, then … then my life will have had meaning. Everything I lived through, suffered through, it would be okay, because it would have led me to do _this_. It would have led me to bring Edward Cullen back from the dead, to bring back Alice Cullen's brother from the grave. My pain, my loss, finally would have meaning and worth. If I save Alice's brother and save her, that part of me would live again too.

Except I haven't. And now I'm stuck.

"Am I going to be here forever?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"I cannot tell you that," says James. "You're out of my domain. I can only observe."

"That's all you ever do," I snap. I wish I had a body so I could find him, so I could make him feel everything he has put me through. Make him feel what it was like to kill my most loyal friend—not just physically, but make him feel what I did in my heart, that soul-rending pain. But even if I had a body, I'd have to find him first. I know it would be impossible to harm him emotionally—he has no heart. He has no emotions. I don't know for certain, but I am pretty sure I would not be able to harm him physically, as much as I'd like to wrap my hands around his perfect, blindingly white throat …

"Nasty, spiteful—these thoughts don't suit you, Isabella," James scolds.

I don't know if it's an hour, or a day, or a year, or several lifetimes that I am aware of _being_, just quietly _being_ in this white light. Sometimes James talks to me, and sometimes I find I am quite alone.

If I had a body, I would mark down the days, scratch them into the wall with a pebble, but there is nothing, no body, no wall, no pebble. Just my mind. So I just count in my head, but then I lose count, and then I begin again.

"It's time," says James, maybe centuries after I climbed into the bathtub, maybe only seconds.

"Time for what?" I ask, my voice still sounding clear, even from not having been used for—minutes? Days? Weeks? Time has no meaning here. Then again, it's probably not my voice I'm hearing. I have no voice, no ears to hear.

And even though I have no body, I suddenly feel pain, true pain, throbbing, pressing down, like I've traveled from the bottom of the ocean and have the bends. My head feels as though it is going to explode, but I know I have no body. How can I have a head?

"Time to wake up, Isabella. _Now_."

* * *

My head. Oh, my head. I thought death was supposed to be painful and then over. Not like this. I'm cold and wet, and I realize that I must have a body again, to be able to feel these things. It's bright behind my closed eyes, but a different kind of bright than the nothingness of that in-between place. I wiggle my fingers, realizing I have fingers to wiggle.

Wherever I am, I'm no longer stuck.

My mouth—_I have a mouth again_, I silently rejoice—is dry, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I breathe in and out a few times, trying to muster up the energy to open my eyes and find out where I am.

_Do it. Do it now, Bella_.

Everything feels so heavy, like it's taking every bit of strength I have just to pry my eyes open. It's so bright, and even after being in that in-between place of light, my eyes still hurt, still squint against the whiteness. It takes my eyes a few moments to focus, and I slowly realize I'm still in my bathtub, staring at the ceiling of my apartment.

"No!" I cry out, slamming my fists on the cold porcelain. _It didn't work_. I can't even do _this _correctly. I'm cold and damp, and I realize I've peed myself. What day is it? Or is this my afterlife?

I doubt this is the afterlife, because it looks just like, well, _life_. And that … doesn't make sense.

I'm still wrapped in the old velvet dress, clumsily half-zipped. I stand on unsteady legs and undo the zipper. The dress is ruined. I step out of the soiled velvet and toss the dress onto my bathmat. I desperately need a shower.

I have no idea what day it is or how long I've been lying here. But I'm here. I'm alive. I'm still here. _I'm still here_ … I looked death in the face and said, "Yes, I will. I will take your hand."

So what if I didn't succeed?

I stand right in the stream of cold water, being grateful even to feel cold enough to make my teeth chatter—grateful just to have teeth to chatter. When the water warms up, it's like my body is waking up. _I_ am waking up.

_I am Warrior Bella_.

I feel like I'm scrubbing off my identity in this shower. When I leave this bathtub, I will be a new person. Old Bella died. Frightened Bella. Failure Bella. Only Warrior Bella is left.

I towel off, avoiding touching the old dress, my old skin. That girl is dead. She died here, in this bathtub.

Wrapped in a towel and with my hair sopping wet, I walk out to my room, leaving steamy foot outlines, ghostly footprints, on the cold wooden floor. I pick up the glass from where it rolled under the bed and gather up the few pills that I missed in the dark. I put them back into the empty bottle, but then I decide to chuck it all in the trash.

What does it matter now? What do I have to fear? Part of me is already dead, and the only part that remains is the warrior, like Achilles held over the fire, his humanity burned away.

I sit on the edge of my bed in the towel. I can hear my hair dripping onto it, a dull, irregular drumbeat. The comforter is still pulled back, and I can see evidence of _whatever_ that was with Jasper on the dark sheets. _That did happen. He was my sign._

I turn on my laptop to read the news, hoping against hope that somehow, in some way, that Edward Cullen is awake. I check the news sites, look at the date. I have been unconscious for two days. I'm lucky to be alive.

There are no news developments on the crash, and when I Google Edward's name, I still see memorials, messages of shock, news articles covering the crash. I see that the Cullens have set up a scholarship fund at Forks Country Day in his name. I realize, as my heart sinks, that I'd still been hoping that what I did, what I was brave—or stupid—enough to do, would have had an impact. But of course, there is nothing. Of course, because these were just silly dreams. I've been letting these dreams rule over me, make me willing to abandon the people here who I know _do_ love me.

Why do I seek only the love of those who don't?

While I'm online, I look up airfare for Easter. I'm going to go home. I _will_ see Charlie again. No more false promises. I don't have to sit here and _miss him_ so much. I can do something about it. I can see him as much as I want, as often as I want. I book a ticket, putting it on my credit card. I'll figure out how to pay for it later.

I am no longer afraid.

I consider putting my pajamas back on, but I get dressed instead. I'm going to do this right.

My legs are still a little unsteady as I go to the kitchen to get a glass of juice. I fry up some eggs and toast a few slices of bread. I take the plate of eggs and toast and my glass of juice to the table. I will not cram my mouth with hot eggs while standing up at the counter, nor will I balance a plate on my lap while I watch TV. I resolve to sit at the table with my hot breakfast, because I deserve to be eating here, as if I'm a special guest in my home.

Food has never tasted so good. Maybe that's what happens when you've been unconscious for two days.

I call Charlie as I'm mopping up the last of the runny yolk with my toast. I don't even know what time it is. "Bells!" he answers on the first ring. "I was just about to check in with you."

"What time is it?" I ask. My voice is hoarse, sounding wholly unlike me.

"A little after seven," he says, yawning. "Sorry, haven't had my coffee yet. Was going to head into the office early, but I … I just really wanted to hear your voice."

I'm almost uncomfortable at the raw honesty and open affection in his words. We don't speak this way. "Me too," I say, remembering my desperate need to hear even his outgoing voicemail message when I thought I'd never see him again.

"You catching a cold, Bells? Your voice sounds kind of scratchy."

"No," I say, love seeping through me from my heart all the way to my fingertips and toes just from the concern in his voice. I'm still his baby. I will always be his baby. "But hey, Dad, I booked a ticket home for Easter."

"Did you, now? Really?" Charlie sounds confused, surprised, skeptical.

"Really. I … I don't think I'm afraid anymore."

"Well, Bells, I don't know what to say."

"I can't wait to see you again," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

It takes Charlie a moment to recover, but then he announces, "We are going to have the best Easter ever. You still like chocolate bunnies? I'm going to get you the biggest chocolate bunny you've ever _seen_." I've never heard him so excited.

I laugh, wiping some tears away at his child-like enthusiasm. "You know me. Chocolate anything is good. But don't go overboard."

"Define 'overboard,'" says Charlie in his "serious cop" voice.

"If it's bigger than my head, that's too big."

"I'll take that under consideration," he says solemnly, but I can almost see his fingers crossed behind his back. "Well," he says, "I should head out. Can't wait to see you."

"You too, Dad. Love you."

"Yup, you too, kid."

I end the call and see that I've missed a bunch of texts from Rosalie. There's nothing important, and she knows that sometimes I like to keep to myself. Still, I ache to see her. **Where R U, U dirty h00r?** I tap into the phone.

A moment later, she texts back: **Class—looking busy, cuntmuffin.**

I laugh and text: **WTF is a cuntmuffin?**

Beep. **Look in a mirror, cuntmuffin.**

I tap back: **Want 2 have lunch w/ this cuntmuffin?**

There's a bit of a pause, and I'm guessing Rosalie is waiting until it's safe to text back. **Duh, CM. Meet me at Law School cafeteria?**

She doesn't have much time between her classes, and my day—my life—is completely open. **Today's special: Cuntmuffin. See you at 1?** I write back.

Just one word in reply: **Sweet.**

While I wait to meet Rosalie, I look through my sketchbook, mourning the loss of my wolves. But it feels different to me somehow, now that I've gone through what they have. Sort of. Maybe they passed through. Maybe they're all right. _Maybe they are imaginary, and you should put them away_. I still don't know.

Where will I go tonight when I sleep? Will I return? Will the dreaming be the same, or will it be different because _I_ am different?

Before I leave my apartment, I consider the velvet dress. It is my burial shroud, my old self, my old skin. I shouldn't leave it here. I should be finished with it. I get a plastic grocery bag and pick it up gingerly, trying not to touch any of the wet patches. I'm about to tie the bag handles tight to throw it away, but I can't. My hands won't allow it.

_Edward Cullen touched you through that fabric_, I tell myself.

At the same time, though, I don't think I can hold onto it. But I also can't bear to throw it away. I reach into my desk drawer and find my scissors. Carefully, as if trimming a priceless bonsai, I cut one perfect square of velvet from the back of the dress, where it's still clean, where his hands touched me. I use a gluestick to put the square on a blank page, a patch of dark on this stark, white page. I wonder what I'll draw around it, but I don't have time now, because it'll take me nearly an hour to get to Rosalie's school.

Tonight. Before I dream. If I dream.

I finally feel all right tying up the bag, and I toss it in the dumpster behind the apartment. I feel a twinge of guilt, wondering if I should have made more of a ceremony of it, said some words, left a note inside the bag. But it's too late now. Since it's daytime, I walk through the fens to the Museum of Fine Arts subway stop. There's a little bridge over a creek I have to cross to get to Huntington Avenue, and I linger a little at the railing, thinking of the Bridge Between. This bridge is tiny, modern, nothing like the majestic and somewhat terrifying Bridge Between. But it's real, and it's mine, and it's home. I stomp across, owning it, feeling the metal vibrate through my bones.

It's still cold today, but the sun is shining so brightly that I can barely open my eyes. The glare off the snow is blinding. It's almost like physical pain, a scraping against my retinas. Still, I am glad to see the sun. I'm glad to smell the cleanness of air so cold. That is one nice thing about the chill—everything smells fresh, untouched, even though there's litter on the sidewalks, even though we are as unclean as we always are. But in the February cold we all seem pure.

Rosalie's waiting just inside the cafeteria, wearing a red puffy vest that makes me think of Marty McFly. I wave like an idiot as soon as I see her, and she sticks her tongue out and flips me the bird. But that's Rosalie for "I'm happy to see you, you cuntmuffin."

I still have snow in the tread of my boots, so when my feet hit the linoleum, I skid a little, but Rose is there to catch me. I give her a bone-crushing hug. She's a good head taller than I am, so this means I'm sort of nestled in her boobs, which are encased in the Marty McFly vest.

"Missed you too, you slore," she says, tugging on my hair. "Jesus, Bella Match Girl, did you go out with wet hair again?" The tips of my hair are frozen. I didn't even notice, too busy sniffing at the air and squinting.

"Meh," I shrug. "I can't be bothered with hair dryers."

"One of these days you are going to catch your death of hypothermia," she says sternly, and I feel that warm rush seep through me the way I did when Charlie was worried I'd caught a cold. I am loved.

I am lucky.

Rose talks my ear off about the latest law school scandals, and we reminisce, as we often do, about the crazier things that happened at Longfellow. "Remember when you kissed that dwarf guy when we were off our nut on tequila? What was his crazy dwarfy name?"

"Dwardlen," I say, blushing. I wonder if I should tell her about the other night with Jasper, but it feels too private. She'd make too much of it, or too little, and somehow it would cheapen what we experienced. I shake my head again, thinking of Jasper and me as a _we_. But _we_ were, sugar and salt, fused together through grief, just for that moment. I fiddle with the sugar bowl on the table, slide over the saltshaker, and make them tap together. They don't stick—they clatter, reminding me of James' clucking tongue. "Who was that asshole who used to dump the salt into the sugar bowls?" I ask, trying to clear my head of the memory. _I was dead—no, in between_, I correct myself. I shudder.

"_God_, I never found out," Rosalie says, thumping the table. "Do you have any idea how many perfectly good grapefruit halves he ruined for me?"

"Did we ever figure out for sure the salt hooligan was a he?"

"It was a dick move," she says. "Dick moves equal penises, which equal dudes."

"What about chicks with dicks?" I say. I hold my hand up before Rosalie can interrupt me. "You know, just playing penis's advocate."

"Don't make me start pulling out my Latin legalese, Bellaw-and-Order."

I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, that wasn't my best work," admits Rosalie. "How about … Bell A. Law?"

"Too obscure," I say, shaking my head.

"Bellan Dershowitz?"

"I'll allow that," I say.

Too soon it's time for Rosalie to head to her next class.

"Hey," I say, tugging on her arm after she's put her tray on the conveyer belt heading to the dishwashing room. "What are you doing for spring break?"

"Not sure. Why?"

"You know how you always talked about going to Europe? We should go. Pick a city. I don't know. I'll save up the money."

"Shit, Bella, are you serious?"

"Yeah."

"The flying?"

"I'm going to be okay," I say. And I will. I know it. I think of the dress, with one square removed, in its plastic bag, waiting in the dumpster. _That other girl is dead_.

"I'm going to be late for class, but let's talk about this later. I'm thinking, since you're such a dirty French h00r, maybe Paris? But we don't have to decide now." Rose gives me a quick peck on the cheek as she rushes out with her bags, her crazy legwarmers, and her Marty McFly vest.

I walk two stops past the closest stop to Rose's school, because I'm just happy to have a body again. As I tromp in the snow, I think of getting on a plane with Rosalie and going to Paris, of drunk-flirting with French men and eating crepes and waiting in line to see the Mona Lisa.

I'm finally going to do all those things that I was supposed to do.

The light is already fading as I unlock my front door. I flip on the desk lamp and flop on my belly on the bed, pencil in hand, staring at the square of black velvet and the nothingness around it. I touch the velvet with my fingertip, then with the tip of my nose.

For the first time, my hand is still, not drawing. Not knowing what to draw. Maybe this is it, one square of velvet on a white background, one moment of Edward Cullen. I don't know.

When I sit up, my back is stiff and night has fallen. I must have stared at that page for hours.

Even having been _in between_ for two days, I'm already tired, so I ready myself for bed. The apartment is cold again, too cold, so I wear my thermals under my pajamas and put the sleeping bag on top of the comforter. I keep the sketchpad by me, tucked under the blanket. My eyelids grow heavy as my head swims with questions.

_Will I dream tonight? Will I return?_

I don't know, but I do know that if I see James again, I will make him hurt.

_I am Warrior Bella_.

* * *

I'm here, in the dreaming, in the Citadel. Seth's tree is split in two, and the blossoms have fallen off Leah's prickly pear cactus. I'm still in the long, white dress. I wonder if I'll ever get the archer's dress back. The color is nearly all gone now, making me wonder if something is wrong with my eyes.

I'm going to go see Jacob. I run into the woods to his grave. I can hear James' voice in my head when I was _stuck_, and I am suddenly filled with fury. The pain, the mocking … I am done with him.

Jacob's strange gold tree glints, the one thing still holding color as everything else bleeds away. It seems to pulse at me, and I think that it is wrong for this vicious plant to mark the spot where such a noble soul lies. I grasp it in both hands, and the stinging is almost unbearable. The ruby blossoms nip mercilessly at my bare hands, begin to snake under my sleeves, but I keep pulling. "You are not _worthy_," I hiss, leaning my whole body's weight back. The tree begins to give, loosening its hold on this sacred dirt, and my blood seeps through the white gossamer sleeves where the treacherous blossoms have bitten me.

When I pull the tree out, roots and all, it turns back into the knife. There is pain from the bleeding and that same electric pulsing, but I am no longer afraid of any of it. I think I hear footsteps behind me, so I turn around. "Who's there?" I call.

I must be mistaken. I must be hearing things because I don't want to be alone here. But even the loneliness doesn't frighten me so much now.

I march to the Bridge Between with the knife in my hand, blood trickling down my arms.

"James!" I shout at the top of my lungs. "I am back. You _will_ receive me." I no longer ask. No more politeness. He deserves nothing.

I run across the Bridge, my bare feet cold but sure, unwavering. As I reach the other end of the Bridge, the white greets me, but there is no sign of James.

"James!" I shout again. "Eternal! I am here, and you _will_ receive me."

"My, my, my, aren't you a little tigress?" I hear him say in my head.

"I am entering now," I say, setting foot on the nothingness. I'm not afraid. "And you _will_ speak out loud. I hold the knife, and I command it."

"How curious," James says aloud, no longer in my head. "For once what you say and what you think are exactly the same. What has happened to you?"

I step father into the white, and James begrudgingly allows the pillars, the sconces, the torches appear. "You were there. You know what happened. I thought you could see everything," I taunt.

I finally reach our meeting room, where James stands calmly, waiting. "Welcome," he says, but there is no friendliness in his eyes. He's not even trying anymore. I've seen what he is, and he knows I no longer believe. He can feel my hatred.

I look over to the dais, to Jacob's heart. "This heart does not belong here," I say. "It belongs to me. It is my heart."

"What about the Sleeper?" asks James.

"Were you really going to waken the Sleeper?" I say, inching toward the bell jar.

"Isabella, I do not quite understand your lack of trust. I do intend to waken the Sleeper, but you have not completed the third task."

"You take too much pleasure in my suffering for me to trust you. In good faith I tried to take my life, to offer it for the Sleeper's own. And you mocked me."

"Perhaps, Isabella, something is lost when I try to speak your language." He's backpedaling.

"I've seen the dark, the malevolence, in you," I say, moving ever closer to Jacob's heart. "You try to mask it with this brightness." I gesture around me at his kingdom, at him. "But I know now. I know."

I turn quickly, running for the bell jar. I know I couldn't touch the glass before, but somehow, in my heart, I know the knife will let me pass. I use the hilt to smash the glass.

"What have you _done_?" shrieks James.

"I'm taking this back. It does not belong to you." My hands are cut up from the glass, but I don't care, because I'm holding the jewel by my heart again. I don't know what I'll do with it, but I won't let it stay here with this cruel god.

"Foolish, foolish Isabella. It was never about you. And it was never about me. The rules—"

"I'm tired of the rules. I am a princess. I am a warrior."

"Are you? How brave you are now, Little Maiden." There's something almost like pride in his voice.

I cradle the heart near my own, and it seems to gleam a little, almost seems to beat again with mine. At the same time I find myself struggling to take a breath. "What … what have you done?" I gasp, choking.

"Believe it or not, Isabella, you can't blame me for all your problems." His face is unperturbed, his shock at my liberating Jacob's heart smoothed back away.

The room seems to grow even brighter, and I cough and squint. "Are you doing this to me?"

"You begin to tire me, Archer, with your petty accusations."

The room is brighter now, even brighter, and my skin starts to burn. The knife has been pulsing in my hand this whole time, and maybe the shocks have ramped up in such small increments that I haven't noticed how intense they've become. But I can't ignore it now. I writhe in pain. I'd scream, but I can't draw a breath.

With the last of my strength, I lunge at James, trying to sink the knife into him. But he easily dodges me. Of course. He can read my thoughts.

"Isabella, you disappoint me with this anger, this blame. I only wanted to help you."

I'd laugh, but I have no more strength, and I sink to the floor, gasping for air. How is it that dying in the bathtub was so painless? This is agony. My skin, my skin, I claw at myself trying to find relief, and James looks down on me with a smile, a gentle smile.

"My goodness, Isabella. I didn't think you had it in you." His voice is filled with … admiration?

"What do you mean?" I manage to croak out in between coughing fits.

"You're completing the third task." I'm vaguely aware he is standing before me, but my vision is going blurry, and he looks like a child's watercolor picture dropped into a rain puddle.

I clutch Jacob's heart to me, press it so hard into my chest that it leaves an impression on my skin. I don't understand him. I don't understand anything. The pain, the pain is indescribable, unbearable. _Why does it hurt so much?_

"It hurts because you're dying, dear one," he says gently, crouching near my head.

I can't keep my eyes open. I just want this—whatever _this_ is—to end. "Please," I whisper through parched lips. "Please." I don't even know who I'm talking to or what I'm asking.

Do I imagine it when I hear James say, "I will waken the Sleeper"? Do I imagine when he says, "Rest now, your journey is finished"?

I clutch Jacob's heart to me, and then …

And then there is no more.

**

* * *

A/N: The nuns stole the car parts from the Nazis!**

**So. There is an epilogue. It will be epic. That's all I can say for now. Things will be answered. Many things.**


	28. Epilogue: The Sleepers Awake

**A/N: And … we're here. Are you ready to complete the journey?**

**There will be epic notes at the end of the epilogue. And Twirlgrrl, you stop right now. Do not skip ahead to the lengthy Afterword! STOP!**

**Disclaimer: [Insert humorous disclaimer here.]**

**

* * *

Epilogue: The Sleepers Awake**

In a small apartment by the law school, Rosalie Hale sleeps. She usually sleeps soundly—"like the dead," she's been told by friends, family, and lovers who have tried to rouse her from slumber before she was ready. She's been told she snores. She's slept through all kinds of things—even an earthquake when she was vacationing with her family in California. But this day, she wakes up, afraid. Rosalie Hale is not used to feeling terror like this, silly monsters in the dark. Even as a child she slept without fear of what might be lurking under her bed or in the closet. But this early morning, so early it may as well be night, she bolts up in her bed, where she's fallen asleep with a law text under her pillow.

"Bella," she says out loud, not knowing why.

She gets up and fumbles with the remote control. When the TV warms up, she sees a breaking news report about a fire. These are fairly common in the winter here—so many old buildings with faulty wiring, so many space heaters foolishly placed near curtains or bedskirts. But she has a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she is not as surprised as she should be when she recognizes the building, the apartment where her best friend in the world lives.

Without thinking, she puts extra layers on over her pajamas and bundles up. There's a cabstand near her place, so she hops in and tells the cabbie to head to the Fenway. Her coat is half-buttoned, and the cabbie looks her over, thinking she's doing some Cab of Shame after a tryst she already regrets. There's little traffic at this hour of the early morning, so it doesn't take long before they are there, but the street is jammed up with flashing lights, ambulances, police cars, and the tall masts of news-vans' broadcasting antennae.

"I cahn't get you closah," the cabbie says in his thick Boston accent, and Rosalie fumbles in her jacket pockets, finding a crumpled ten-dollar bill and slipping it through the partition. "Is that yah house on fiyah?" asks the cabbie, but Rosalie shakes her head, unable to speak.

"Take keeyah now," he says kindly before pulling away, worried about the look on her face.

Rosalie nods, not really processing his words as she wraps her arms around herself and rushes forward past the parked cars, the emergency vehicles, the news reporters scoping out the best spots to deliver their reports. The apartment residents are huddled in blankets, looking up in shock as the building smokes, flames still licking around the roof.

Rosalie starts pushing through the crowd of residents, searching for Bella. "Has anyone seen Bella? Bella Swan? About this tall, brown hair? Lives on the third floor?" She grabs people indiscriminately, overcome with panic. The residents shrug, some of them quietly weeping, worried about losing their possessions, not having a place to live. They know who Bella is, but no one has seen her. They all shake their heads, murmur "no" and "sorry."

Rosalie continues to scan the crowd, her back to the smoking building, when she feels it. Suddenly, she stops in her tracks, and her blood runs cold, as if she's been plunged into a container of liquid nitrogen. After she musters up the courage, she turns slowly around and is not surprised when she sees firemen coming out of the building, carrying a stretcher covered in a sheet.

"No, no, no," Rosalie sobs, rocking back and forth. She doesn't need to get closer or ask the firemen to know who is under that sheet. She knows. She realizes she's known since the minute she was shaken from sleep. She puts her face in her hands and weeps, her ragged breath leaving clouds of steam in the cold air, puffs of visible grief as the sun begins to rise in the east, blood red, giving not even a shred of warmth as it climbs into the pale, impassive sky.

* * *

In a large house in a small town on the western edge of Washington State, five grieving people sleep: four members of one family, and one who is no relation but should have been one day, a day that now will never come. A doctor and his wife cling to each other in the center of the king-size bed, his arms wrapped around her middle, even in deep slumber. She had been crying herself to sleep for days until the doctor begged her to take the Xanax he'd prescribed her. Now every night she drops to sleep placid and blank, numb and slurring, but at least she is getting the rest, short, merciful bursts of forgetfulness. The doctor lies awake next to her most nights, listening to her drugged breathing, wondering how many times his heart can break before it stops beating entirely. Eventually he places one hand on the thin fabric of her nightgown, watching it rise and fall on the tide of her breath until his eyelids grow heavy. With closed eyes, he focuses on her breathing, feels the unevenness of the skin on her belly that stretched and grew taut and shrank back again three times. Only one of those three souls that began under this skin still lives, sleeping tonight under the same roof.

The jangling phone makes the doctor sit up, panting and clutching his chest. He never sleeps well, and he won't take the Xanax he's given to his wife. He feels that one of the two should be alert, irrationally afraid that if they both sleep too soundly, that more tragedy will find them. Vigilance. The doctor's wife merely groans a little and flips over, but he picks up the phone, hand trembling, reminding himself that everyone he loves most is under this roof. _It's okay, it's okay_. What more bad news can come in the middle of the night?

"Cullen residence," he answers, voice shaking. He quietly takes in the voice on the other end of the line, brusque and professional. He exhales in exhaustion, squeezes his eyes shut, and says, "Thank you. Yes. I understand." He places the receiver back on the cradle carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible. He leans against the headboard with his fist pressed against his mouth, fighting his urge to sob out loud, trying not to wake his wife. But then he realizes that he needs to wake her. She should know.

He shakes her gently, and she whimpers a little, a tiny crease forming between her eyebrows. He shakes her again, a little less gently, and her eyelids flutter open and closed a few times before she, too, wakes in a panic.

"What's wrong?" she whispers, her voice tinged with fear.

He holds her to him. "They found him. They found his body."

The two of them weep together in the dark, the pain as fresh and raw as when they got the first phone call. Neither of them realized until this moment how much they'd held out hope against all odds that the whole thing was just a bad dream, that they'd find him alive, that he never had gotten on that plane. That he'd call them or walk through the front door as if none of this had happened. "Mom! Dad! Why are you looking at me like that?" he'd say.

After the first wave of sobbing passes, the doctor cups his wife's face in his hands and wipes her tears away with his thumbs. He kisses her softly on each cheek, and then on her mouth. Her breathing calms. Finally she speaks.

"Our baby can rest now," says the doctor's wife, in a quiet, calm sorrow, her hand resting on her belly, remembering the life that once fluttered under her fingertips.

"Should we wake Emmett?" asks the doctor.

"He'd want to know," decides the wife.

They get out of bed, put on bathrobes and slippers. The house can be drafty and cold. Hand in hand, they creep out their room, down the hall, and knock softly on their living son's door.

* * *

Gripping the down comforter in tight, angry fists, Emmett fitfully sleeps. He doesn't live here anymore, but he's taken a leave of absence from school for the remainder of the semester, wanting to make sure his mom and dad are okay. At least that's what he tells himself. But deep down, he's afraid he's going to fall apart without them, now that his best friend is gone. He knows they don't expect him to fill his brother's shoes, but he feels his brother's absence all around him in the house, in the world. Some days he forgets that Edward is gone; other days he can at least pretend it never happened. But then he walks by the empty space where the piano used to be, a cavity in a rotted tooth. And then he remembers. _Edward's gone. Edward's gone. Edward's gone_. How can this have happened?

He grinds his teeth in his sleep now, some mornings waking up with so much pain that he can't even speak for the first few hours of the day. He'll pour himself some coffee and hold the hot mug against his face until he feels his jaw loosening up again. What would Edward say? He used to grind his teeth as a child, when they lived in the old house, where they shared a bedroom. Edward used to lob pillows at him in the middle of the night to make him stop grinding. If he woke Emmett up from a particularly nice dream (at that age, it usually involved a never-ending supply of ice cream and hamburgers), Emmett would leap out of bed and tackle Edward. They'd wrestle and punch each other, all in good fun, until their parents would pound on the door and demand what the hell was going on in there. They didn't understand. You could punch your brother in the stomach or sit on his face and fart and hold him down until he was begging for mercy, tears of laughter running down his face. It didn't mean you hated him. It was just part of what brothers _did_.

In his half-asleep state, he's remembering wrestling with Edward in the middle of the night in the old house, his hands clutching his blanket as if it were Edward's funny old-man button-down pajamas. He's remembering how they'd grapple with each other, laughing and shushing the other. They didn't want to wake their parents. Neither brother wanted to get the other in trouble.

So when he hears the knock on the door, he mumbles into his pillow, "Honest, Mom and Dad, nothing's going on in here. We're just playing."

The knocking is louder, more insistent, and Emmett wakes up fully, momentarily confused that he's in this _other_ room, this _other_ house. He looks over to his left, where Edward's bed would have been in their old room and shakes his head. He swings his legs around the side of the bed and plunks his gigantic feet down on the cold floor. "Be there in a sec," he says gruffly, and he opens the door to see his mom and dad with tear-streaked faces. "Oh, god," Emmett says, eyes wide with concern. "Is everything okay? What's happened?"

"No, Emmett, it's good," his mother says, placing a cool hand on his cheek.

"They've found Edward," says his dad, swallowing hard. "They've identified his body."

He takes a few steps forward and enfolds his parents into his arms, squeezing them tightly. He's much taller than either of them—he'd outgrown his mom while he was still in junior high, and he easily overtook his dad when he hit his second—or was it third?—growth spurt in high school. He wishes he were small again, small enough to crawl into his mom's lap while she'd rub his back and sing lullabies into his ear. But instead he crushes them in a hug.

"Easy there, Emmett," says his mom, her eyes glittering with tears but a sad little smile on her face. "I'm your mother, not a squeak toy."

Emmett laughs through his crying, and the three of them are just one big mass of arms and backs and tears, holding each other, a strange celestial body. Edward is coming home at last. They found his body. It'll make it real, final. And as much as that hurts, to be forced finally to say goodbye, it's still better than the not knowing, or thinking his body was lost forever.

After a moment, the good doctor says, "Should we tell Tanya?"

Emmett says, "You guys go back to bed. I'll tell her." They nod, grateful, and shuffle off to bed, although they know they will not be able to sleep now.

Emmett creeps down the hallway, then down the stairs to the guest room. He raps lightly on the door.

* * *

In this strange bed far from the apartment she once shared with her fiancé, Tanya sleeps. She'll never get used to this mattress, the smell of unfamiliar detergent in the sheets. She thinks of herself as the princess and the pea sometimes, and then corrects herself, the _widow_ and the pea. Only, she never was married in the first place. Why don't they have a word for someone whose fiancé has died? The Cullens were kind enough to let her stay here after the memorial. She dreads returning home. She doesn't feel brave enough to be faced with the _already was_, let alone the _might-have-beens_, the life she had in the past and had imagined in the future with the love of her life. Emmett has said that he would go with her, whenever she feels up to returning, to help sort through Edward's things. He said that between two broken people, they might make one strong person.

Emmett has been wonderful to her, accepting her as one of the family. It's not as if Dr. and Mrs. Cullen have been deliberately cold—no, she knows the shock on their faces, that lost, frantic look that you get when you find yourself trapped in the worst nightmare of your life. And you just can't wake up, no matter what. So she doesn't blame them for seeming to look through her. They're barely holding the pieces of themselves together. But Emmett … he's been the only one she can talk to, the only one who seems to understand. Some nights he sneaks down to her room if he sees the light seeping out from the crack underneath the closed door, with late-night snacks. Sometimes they'll just sit there in their pajamas, stuffing Oreos in their mouths, sharing their favorite Edward stories.

So as Tanya is awoken from her dreams of princesses, widows, and peas, she isn't too frightened or surprised at the light knocking. She creeps to the door, placing one hand against it, leaning her forehead against the polished wood. "Emmett?" she asks. "Is that you?"

"Yeah. Can I come in?"

She opens the door, gesturing Emmett inside. She notices he doesn't have cookies tonight. He pulls her blanket up neatly, and plunks himself down near the foot of the bed. She sits near the headboard, hugging her knees to herself. After a bit, she pulls the pillows out from underneath the comforter, putting one behind her back and offering the other to Emmett, who takes it from her with a grateful nod. He doesn't put the pillow behind his head or back, just clutches it as if it were a basketball he's getting ready to pass.

"What's up?" she says.

"Mom and Dad just woke me up," he says, playing the pillow like an accordion. He talks to his feet. "They found him … his body."

"Oh," says Tanya in a small voice. It's less a word than it is her breath just expelled out of her, as if she is a deflating balloon.

"Yeah," he says, peering up behind the pillow to see how she's doing.

"I … I guess that's a good thing, right?" she says, looking up at the ceiling. She's trying not to cry again. She's cried so much the past few weeks that her eyes are constantly puffy, her skin splotchy. She blinks quickly a few times, and two fat tears roll down her cheeks. "Fuck," she says, angrily brushing the tears away. "I'm so fucking sick of crying."

"Yeah."

They sit in silence for a while. Emmett watches her as she rests her head on her knees. Tears slide out of the corner of her eyes in a constant, slow stream. She looks so beautiful, like a sad garden sculpture, a trickling fountain. Without thinking, he scoots over closer, and strokes her hair, just letting her cry.

She closes her eyes at his touch, so familiar yet so not. She hates that she hates him a little for _not_ being Edward, and she hates herself a little that sometimes, like right now, she doesn't really care, that she's okay with his being just Emmett.

She sits up, and he jumps away, afraid he's crossed a line. "Sorry," he mumbles.

She shakes her head, letting her hair fall into her eyes and takes his hand in hers. He doesn't pull away. They sit, side by side, legs straight out. They lean against the headboard. She rests her head on his shoulder, and they hold hands, not speaking.

They don't need words.

* * *

In a large house in a small town on the western edge of Washington State, four people in two bedrooms now lie awake, and only one, the child, remains asleep. The doctor and his wife hold each other, both feeling drained but strangely calm. Maybe it's just temporary numbness. Or maybe their souls have calloused. In any case, they will be okay. They will make it through this, the same way they've gotten through so many other sorrows. There is enough love to hold them together.

Downstairs, the brother and the fiancée lie next to each other on top of the covers, fingers intertwined. _Would Edward forgive me?_ the brother wonders.

_Is this cheating?_ wonders the fiancée.

The brother leans down and kisses the top of the fiancée's head chastely. She squeezes his hand in response.

_I think he would understand_, the two of them think, separate from the other but of one mind.

* * *

All is quiet in this large house in a small town on the western edge of Washington State where four people lie awake and one child sleeps.

The doctor and his wife, the brother and the fiancée, are alert and watchful, listening to the breathing of their respective companions. Their loved one will soon be at rest. They are full of sorrow, yet still thankful that the heavens have at least found their lost one, that he will finally be home. It's painful that it is real, but it's a good kind of pain, like the pain as your skin mends itself back together after a bad cut.

There's no sound in the large house in a small town on the western edge of Washington State, no sound but the inhale, exhale of four people beginning to close doors and move into new rooms of their lives. Quiet, still, a formal and stoic grieving. No sound but the inhale, exhale of a child still asleep.

The doctor and his wife, the brother and the fiancée, breathing, grateful for the warm body next to them, grateful for the beginnings of closure. They, all four, begin to drift back to sleep.

And then.

And then a shriek fills the air, an otherworldly shriek. It's a voice no one in the house has ever heard before, and the doctor and his wife, the brother and the fiancée, all are awake again, wide-eyed and fearful. The brother drops the hand of the fiancée, worrying it is some sort of alarm, that somehow Edward senses the betrayal.

There is another shriek, and the doctor's wife gets up again out of bed, puts her slippers back on. "Carlisle," she says, "something's wrong."

Carlisle says one word, one word only, before he bolts out the door, his wife on his heels. "Alice."

They run to their daughter's room, just a few doors down from their own. The shrieking is coming from inside. "Oh no," murmurs the doctor's wife. "My poor baby, what's happening to her?"

"Esme, it's going to be all right."

"How do you know?" Esme angrily whispers in the dark.

"I don't," admits Carlisle, hanging his head. "I just needed to say that."

They take hands, and Carlisle opens the door. The two are cringing as the door opens wide, as their eyes try to adjust to the utter darkness of Alice's room. She wants all the light shut out in the dark, too afraid of shadows on the walls. They had to order the blackout curtains for her room online. Eventually, the _something _light from the hallway is enough for them to see her small form.

She is sitting up in bed, holding her head in her hands, her fingers tangled in her unruly black hair. The shrieking is coming from her mouth.

They have never heard her scream.

Then she starts to cry: loud, body-wracking sobs. She's always cried silently before. She is mumbling something—actually speaking!—repeatedly.

"What's she saying?" whispers Esme, afraid to come any closer. "It sounds like she's saying _label _over and over again."

"No." Alice surprises them by looking them in the eye and speaking—_speaking!_—out loud to them. "Not _label_."

Carlisle and Esme take a step back at the fierceness in her voice—_her voice_.

"_Bella_," corrects Alice.

"Bella?" asks Carlisle, the first to recover from the shock. "Who is Bella?"

"I can't see her anymore," says Alice. And she screams again.

* * *

The brother and the fiancée listen, looking up at the ceiling. Two screams. Then scurrying of feet, and then silence. At the third scream, the brother stands up. "I'm going up there. This isn't right."

"I'll come with you," says the fiancée, reaching for his hand. He doesn't pull away. He lets her slip her elegant hand into his big, clumsy one. They are both a little braver when their skin touches, and they squeeze hands tightly as they climb the stairs up to the second floor. The fiancée understands now what Emmett means when he says that two broken people might be able to make one person strong enough. She'll be able to return to the apartment if Emmett comes with her.

"I think it's Alice," says Emmett, and Tanya nods.

"You're all right, Alice," he hears his dad say. "You're safe."

"_Bella_," weeps Alice, "_Bella Bella Bella Bella Bella_."

Emmett and Tanya walk into the room. "Did … was … was that Alice talking?" asks Emmett.

"_Bella_," says Alice again.

"What happened, Dad?" He touches Carlisle on the shoulder with his free hand. The good doctor turns around, his eyes drawn to where Emmett and Tanya hold hands. In the dark, no one can tell that Tanya is blushing. She feels waves of disapproval, judgment, from her fiancé's father, and in shame she tries to pull her hand out of Emmett's grasp. Emmett shakes his head and holds on more tightly. With a squeeze of his hand, he seems to say, "You don't need to be ashamed. Apart, we are two broken people, and together we are one strong one."

"Alice …" answers Carlisle finally. "She's … _talking_ now. She woke up screaming, and now she's talking."

"What happened, kidlet?" asks Emmett, pushing past his dad to see Alice's wide, frightened eyes. His mom sits next to Alice, trying to smooth down her hair.

"I'm awake now," she says. "But I can't see her anymore."

Emmett finally lets go of Tanya's hand. She understands. Family first. Emmett gets on Alice's other side, wraps his big bear arms around her. "You're talking, Ali-bear. It's nice as heck to hear your voice."

She throws her arms around his neck and squeezes hard. "Thank you."

"Big bro Em is here now," says Emmett. "I know I can't be like Edward, but it's you and me, kid. The Cullen kids stick together, right, Ali-bear?"

"Uh-huh," she says, pressing her wet face into the side of his neck.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asks solemnly, pulling back and touching the end of her nose.

"I'm fine," she says. "But _Bella_…" And she begins to weep again.

Still, each word that passes her lips is a treasure for her adopted family. They don't understand what has happened tonight, if finding Edward's body has somehow unlocked her. But she can't have known about finding the body. They hadn't even gotten to tell her the news yet. They're not going to question it too much, though. They will take it for what it is: a gift. One bright spot in this living nightmare of the recent past.

"Well," says the mother. "Who wants to go downstairs for some hot chocolate?"

"Mommy, please," says Alice, exhausted, leaning on her adopted mother's shoulder.

Esme can't explain the feeling in her chest, the aching in the parts of her heart that are gone forever, nor can she explain how that simple word, "Mommy," spoken out loud to her for the first time by a daughter, seems to fill in the cracks and make her feel whole. "Oh, Alice," she says, cradling her littlest baby. "I love you so much. You know that, right? So much?"

And in a large house in a small town on the western edge of Washington State, five people head downstairs for hot chocolate, none quite understanding what has happened this night. But they know their lives will never be the same. They know when the hand of the divine has intervened, even if they don't know how or why.

* * *

The investigating officers walk through the smoky wreckage of the third floor apartment, the one where that girl died. No one else died in the four-alarm fire—everyone else got out of the building on time. So why this one? Why this one girl? She was young—she shouldn't have had trouble escaping on time. She shouldn't have slept through the fire alarms, the knocking on the doors, the sound of sirens outside.

There's not much left here, and it's hard to imagine this used to be someone's home. Everything is charred, waterlogged. It'll take days to get to the bottom of this mystery. Officer Wallace's eye travels to what must have been the young woman's bed. This is where she died, where she was found. Smoke inhalation, the coroner's office had said.

In a room that is mostly in blacks and whites and shades of gray, an intact notebook of some sort draws attention. What … what is this? Officer Murray is busy checking one of the other rooms, so Wallace picks up the notebook with his latex-gloved hands. A sketchpad. How did this paper not burn along with everything else in this room?

Curious, he opens it to the first page. On the front cover is written a note, a name, and an address. He's moved by what he sees, and he can't get the image of the beautiful, sad girl they kept flashing on the local news and running in that free paper they give outside the T in the mornings. This was her last request. It's not procedure, but … fuck it. He slides the notebook and the small object he finds beside it into a large evidence bag and tucks it into the back of his pants, under his policeman's jacket. He could get fired if anyone finds out, but it's not as if there were anything criminal about this fire. The police dogs could smell no accelerant, and the landlord checked out. He may still be held accountable because of the faulty wiring in the building, but most likely it was the space heater on the second floor that caused the initial blaze. Hell, it could have been something as simple as someone falling asleep while smoking in bed.

How can he deny that sad girl her last request? Her eyes still haunt him. He can see them when he closes his eyes at night. If he doesn't do this for her … even the thought of turning this sketchbook in as evidence makes his heart heavy, saturated with sorrow.

Let them fire him. He knows what's right.

"How you doing in there, Wallace?" asks Officer Murray from the other room. "Find anything?"

"Oh, just fine, nothing new here," he replies, patting his back to make sure the sketchpad is secure and not bulging enough to arouse suspicion. He thinks it will be okay. These winter Boston Police jackets hide a multitude of sins—and in his case, evidence.

"Seems pretty open and shut, this one," says Officer Murray. "See this? Batteries missing in the smoke detector. She must have been unconscious from the smoke before she could hear the rest of the noise anyway. Damn shame."

"Yeah," nods Officer Wallace.

"Are we done here? I want to stop by Dunkin's."

"I don't think we're going to find anything here," Officer Wallace says, packing up the evidence kit and putting it back into the large duffel.

He's sweating a little, nervous about what he's doing, but he thinks about those sad, brown eyes. She was barely an adult. He thinks of his own sweet daughter, around her age. If she'd died in something like this … he swallows thickly. He'd want her last wish to be carried out.

He glances over at Murray, who seems to be dreaming already of overly sweetened coffee. Yeah, he'll be able to do this. He just needs to ride around with this sketchpad tucked under his jacket for a few more hours. He'll go right to the post office on his way home, the one by South Station that's open all night.

Poor girl.

It's the least he can do.

* * *

It's nothing like the memorial they'd had before there even was a body to prove that their beloved son, their beloved brother, was gone. This one was just for family. The doctor had flown out himself to Chicago to pick up what remained of his son's body, identified only by DNA samples. He'd had what was left cremated there, tucking his son's ashes in his carryon bag. He'd wanted to cradle the silver canister in his arms the way he did when his Edward had been born, so tiny and fragile, wrapped in the hospital's rough cotton receiving blanket. But the metal was cold, the canister rigid, not at all like that warm little bundle that gurgled and cooed and rooted around the doctor's shirt, looking for milk. "Hey, buddy, you're barking up the wrong tree," he'd said, handing precious bundle back to his amazing wife. She was positively radiant as she sat in the bed, waiting to nurse the baby, their baby. Their first child. He was perfect.

The metal canister … how could it contain that beautiful boy?

They stood shoulder to shoulder, all dressed in black, in the light rain. More like mist. More like being inside a cloud.

The doctor appreciates that the cemetery is small and quaint enough to have the option to hire a guy to dig the hole, instead of having some big construction machine make the space in the ground. For sweet Emmy, they'd had no choice, even though her casket was heartbreakingly small. But Edward's ashes are so tiny, tinier even than his newborn body. And he worries that a machine might hurt Emmy's casket. He knows his fears are irrational—what could harm her now? But still. He doesn't want anything to disturb her slumber.

They don't have to dig a hole too deep—the canister is small, after all. The undertaker's shovel hits something hard the first or second time he pierces the earth. It's a small rock, a shiny thing, triangular, unusual.

"Alice, isn't that the rock you lost?" his wife asks, leaning down to examine the object.

Alice nods. She runs forward and picks up the glinting rock from the freshly overturned earth. "This stays here," she says, her chin jutting out. Carlisle still hasn't grown accustomed to his daughter's voice. It makes him shudder every time, despite how thankful he is that this miracle has happened.

They lower the canister in, and each family member takes turns dropping a handful of earth into the hole. When it is Alice's turn, she drops her tiny handful of dirt and then falls to her knees. She brings the rock up to her lips and says, "Goodbye, obsidian," before dropping it with a loud clunk into the hole.

Her stockings are muddy when she stands up again, and she takes her mother's hand. The doctor, his wife, and their daughter head to one car, but the son and Edward's fiancée go to the son's jeep. Carlisle has noticed the two have been spending a lot of time together, but he's also noticed the way the tiny worry lines in their foreheads seem to go away when they are by each other's side.

_Good_, he thinks. _They need comfort too_. He's not one to question where they find it.

In the doctor's car, everyone is quiet as they drive back to their house, each one, the mother, the father, the sister lost in thought, in sorrow. But when they drive down a stretch of street, Alice screams. "Stop here!" she demands. "We have to stop."

"Alice, honey, what's wrong?" the mother asks.

The daughter bangs her fists on the window. "We have to stop here! Please! Please stop!"

The doctor doesn't understand it, but he doesn't understand much of anything of the last few weeks. As requested, he stops the car. "What do you need, Alice?"

But Alice has already unlocked the door and dashed out. "Alice, wait!" shouts Esme, opening her door.

"No!" she shouts. "You stay there. I'll be back in a second. I'm safe. I'm okay."

Esme watches her daughter dash across the street. There's an old, beat-up truck in the driveway parked by a police cruiser. This must be Chief Swan's house. She'd heard the news reports about the horrible tragedy that had happened to that girl, his daughter … what was her name? Imogene? No, no, that doesn't sound right. I-something, something regal. Isabella—that's it. She looks up at the windows of the house. She knows how he feels. She wishes him some peace, some comfort.

"No, Alice, don't bother him," she begins to call out, but her voice fails her. She watches Alice stop by the old red truck. She's running her hand along the bumper. Alice reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out an apple. What's she doing?

She watches her daughter carefully peel the sticker off the apple and place it on the bumper, which seems to be littered with them.

Alice climbs the front stairs in her muddied stockings. Esme wants to stop her, to run across the street and tug her back, but something, a twinge in her belly where she feels the emptiness, tells her to stay where she is.

Alice stands on the front stoop, her back to them, and rings the doorbell.

* * *

It's the middle of the day, but still, Charlie Swan sleeps, half-drunk, on his sofa. He hasn't shaved in days. He's on bereavement leave from his job as chief of police in this little, sleepy town he's lived in his whole life. He's slipping. This is what would have happened to him when his wife left him, but back then he'd had his daughter to live for, his daughter to be strong for.

And now, now she is gone.

Who does he live for now?

He didn't think anything was out of the ordinary when the phone rang in the office last week. He wasn't even alarmed when Diana had said with a hand on her mouth, "It's the Boston Police on the line for you." It was unusual, sure, but cops in other cities contacted him from time to time to ask him to check into someone's background, someone in his jurisdiction. Sure, most of the time the cops were in the general vicinity, but who knew? Boston was just another city.

Smoke inhalation. A fire. The investigation had found there were no batteries in her smoke alarm. He'd already had a few vulture lawyers come to him to ask if he wanted to try to sue the building owner for negligence.

He doesn't care about money. He just wants his baby back, his beautiful Bells. She was going to come home for Easter. He hadn't known how much he'd been lying to himself when he said he was okay without her. He'd believed it was the truth until she'd come home suddenly a few weeks ago. Sure, it was for some boy she'd gone to school with, but he still got to have her under his roof again for a few nights, right?

He didn't know he could sleep so soundly, knowing that his baby had returned home, if only for a visit.

When he watched her walk away from him at the airport, he fought the urge to shout out, "Don't leave me!" But he didn't want to embarrass her. And besides, this was what he was used to—the people he loved the most just walking away from him.

The funeral was yesterday. It had all happened so quickly. He'd had to do all the paperwork involved to bring his baby's body home. Diana had helped a little. The funeral was small, but that Weber girl was there with her two kids. He couldn't stop looking at them, and his heart broke all over again realizing he'd never have grandkids of his own, never would be called "Grandpa Charlie."

He'd stood in his one good suit, the same one he used to wear when he visited Bells out in Boston, the same one he'd worn for Longfellow commencement. How he'd hooted and cheered, wanting to stand up in his seat as she walked across the platform and received her degree! He'd never been prouder.

But it was always like that. Every day, he'd never been prouder of his beautiful Bella. He could never believe how such a beautiful, smart, loving young lady had come from him. Sure, he missed Renee. He still dreamed of her most nights. But all that hurt went away whenever he could see Bella's shining face, the way she'd look at him like he was the best daddy in the world. She made him feel worth something.

And just like that, one phone call could take that all away.

He's startled from slumber by the doorbell. "Goddammit, who is it now?" he mumbles to himself as he rubs his face. All week it's been ladies coming over with casseroles, as if a Pyrex dish of cream of mushroom soup and some noodles is going to make up for the fact that his baby is gone, that he is all alone.

He stumbles on his way to the door as the bell rings again. "Keep your pants on," he calls out.

He's ready to bite the head off of whoever is at the door, but he is shocked when he sees that it's just a little girl.

He opens the door on autopilot, not aware of any of his actions. His whole body feels numb. "Charlie!" the little girl says to him, and she bursts into tears.

He's not sure what to do as she runs forward, hugging him around his waist so hard, nearly squeezing the breath from him. "Bella, Bella, Bella," she sobs. He waits a moment, looking around, seeing a well-dressed couple across the street in their car. Oh, the doctor and his wife—the Cullens. They look as bewildered as he must look. So this strange creature hugging him must be the Cullens' little adopted girl. But that can't be right—he'd been told she was some kind of mute. But look here—she is clearly talking. "She saved me, Charlie; she saved me," she weeps. "She didn't even know."

He freezes, but then he pats this strange girl awkwardly on her back. "There, there," he soothes, pretending for a moment that it's his own little girl. She used to be this small.

"May I come in, Charlie?" she asks politely, even with her face buried in his shirt.

"Huh?" Is he still asleep?

"Please," she begs, tipping her face up, looking at him with big, shining eyes.

Charlie tries to clear his mind of the beer buzz. He feels like he ought to be at his best for this girl. He can't explain it, but there it is. "Well now," he says, "check that it's okay with your folks over there."

The girl turns around and bellows, "Mom, Dad, is it okay if I go inside to talk to Charlie for a second?"

Charlie looks at them and shrugs. "Is she bothering you?" asks Mrs. Cullen, concerned. He can hear the sorrow in her voice. He feels a kinship with these two, even if they live in that gigantic house on the outskirts of town, because he knows they've lost someone recently too.

"Nope, it's all right," he says. "She's not bothering anybody."

"Okay then, Alice, if Chief Swan says it's okay."

"Well, come in then, little lady," Charlie says, bowing courteously, as if she's a princess. "Now, what's your name?"

"Alice," she says.

His face is already a little different, a little softened. "Well, Alice, how do you feel about chocolate bunnies?" he asks as he closes the door.

* * *

Rosalie trudges home after class. She knows they buried Bella yesterday, and she hates herself for not being there. But she also knows Bella wouldn't have wanted her to miss lectures. She has a shot of being at the top of her class, and Bella wouldn't want her to risk it. All Rose could do was arrange a memorial service at Longfellow University. It had taken just a few phone calls to their old residential college, to the university chaplain's office. Word got out quickly, and the large church in the quad had been overflowing with people, all holding lit candles, illuminating the huge space with tiny flickering symbols of love, the tongues of flame made of the same stuff that took her life. How can love and death look the same? Rosalie wonders if Bella ever knew how many people had been touched by her, by her quiet, unselfish love.

She was loved.

Rosalie can barely see her front door through her tears as she pushes it open, and her foot catches on something, a package.

She hasn't ordered anything online recently, and she's not expecting anything, but she still checks the label to see who it's for.

It's addressed to Rosalie Hale, in handwriting she doesn't recognize. She tucks the package under her arm and lets herself into the main entryway.

Her hands are shaking so much that she can barely open her front door, dropping her keys twice. "Fuck, come on, Rose, pull it together," she hisses under her breath.

As soon as she's inside, she fights the urge to rip the package open immediately. Something tells her to take her time. She removes her jacket slowly, removes her hat and gloves, unlaces her boots. She makes herself a cup of tea.

Finally, finally, she sits on her bed with the package. She pulls on the little easy-open strip, sending bits of newspaper dust from the padding around her as she tears the package open, bits of lint catching the light, like the fake snow in a snowglobe all shaken up.

She reaches her hand in the package, and it wraps around a wire coil, heavy cardboard. It feels like a notebook. She pulls it out. No, it's a sketchpad.

No, it's _Bella's_ sketchpad.

She sees Bella's familiar handwriting: _Please mail this to Rosalie Hale_. And there's her address.

What can this all mean?

She opens the sketchpad slowly. Wolves. Of course there are wolves. Bella was always drawing those creepy things. She smiles to herself through her tears. So Bella.

There's a picture of Bella herself, some crazy self-portrait where she's tied to a stake, and then strange things taped in: a cigarette butt, a folded note, a square patch of black velvet.

It's this page that she lingers over the longest, the page with this square of black velvet. There's a drawing all around it. It's Bella again, she thinks, even though Bella's drawn herself from the back. But Rosalie recognizes the hair.

Bella wears a long gown, her wavy hair cascading down her back, and she's holding hands with someone. She can't see the face, but she sees a mess of unruly hair.

"Who are you?" Rosalie whispers to this mysterious boy.

She touches the velvet, and words float into her head. She doesn't know what they mean—they sound German. She didn't take German. Bella took German. _Bräutigam und Braut_. What on earth does it mean?

She checks the padded envelope again to see if there's anything else. Probably not. She sweeps her hand inside and is surprised to find something small, pointy, that fits in the palm of her hand. She closes her fingers around this mysterious object, reminded of the "touchy-feely" box in kindergarten, when you'd stick your arm into a dark box and try to guess what was inside.

She can't figure out from touch what this object is, so she pulls her hand back out slowly, her fingers still wrapped around the mystery.

She takes a deep breath and opens her fingers.

A tiny, red plastic monkey, the kind bartenders hang from girly mixed drinks. She stares at the velvet, the monkey, and the drawing of Bella and this mystery boy. She doesn't understand any of it, but still, she whispers, "Thank you, Bella. Thank you for letting me know you're okay."

She holds the monkey in her hand, places the sketchpad underneath the pillow, and stretches out, suddenly exhausted.

Rosalie sleeps.

**

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A/N: And … that's it folks. No final movie or book spoiler for you.**

**

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Afterword:**

**I've been pretty quiet about which works have influenced this story because I didn't want to give too much away. My biggest two sources of inspiration for this story were the film **_**Pan's Labyrinth **_**(Del Toro) and the graphic novel **_**The Sandman**_** (Gaiman), specifically the story arc **_**A Game of You**_**. I was also influenced by **_**Donnie Darko**_**, the opera **_**Dialogues of the Carmelites**_** (Poulenc), tons of Narnia, L'Engle, and I guess also these books about vampires that you possibly might have read.**

**After I saw **_**Pan's Labyrinth**_**, I was devastated, because I didn't believe the magic was real. But it was still such an uplifting story to me, because to me the story was about how a selfless act, even in a world without magic, could cause a miracle to happen. **_**Dialogues of the Carmelites**_** is based on the true story of nuns in the French Revolution who are guillotined. Though they could have escaped this fate easily, they willingly martyred themselves because they believed that their sacrifice would right the balance of grace in the world. About two weeks after their execution, the French Revolution was over. The opera itself follows the path of a young woman terrified of death, so terrified that she can't live. She runs away from her fear all through the opera, running away even from the convent that shielded her, and she watches from the sidelines as the nuns one by one are beheaded. In that last moment, she is brave, and she, though not condemned, climbs the platform to be executed with her sisters.**

**So, I've left things open. Was the magic real? Does James exist? Who is the dark-eyed one in the woods? Does Bella's death actually cause any of these events? Is there life after death for Bella? For Edward? I leave all that up to you. I have my own idea of what happened, but you, the reader, can make your own interpretation. You can choose to believe, or you can choose not to believe. It is, as are all things, your choice.**

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Acknowledgments:**

**THANK YOU so much to everyone who has come along this journey. I know it's not a fun thing to read, especially when I kill Edward off in the prologue and kill people and/or wolves off left and right. I am amazed and so, so thankful that so many of you have traveled with me. Thanks especially to my girls at Rav who read this first just because they loved me. Thanks to Becca Graymoor for telling me I had a story to tell. Thanks to Grendelsmother for being the mayor of my uterus. Thanks to Algonquinrt, without whom nobody outside of my Rav peeps would be reading this story—she was one of the story's first champions, Tweeting and journaling and reccing me in the Twigasm podcast. Thanks to Twighlightzoner for encouraging me, for being such a great cheerleader. Thanks to the Fictionators (especially bsmog, Melissa228, and Madame Fictionator herself), TLYDF (especially to SorceressCirce for her amazing rec), the geniuses behind the Indie Twific Awards, Gymbo-Friends, the Gazebo, ADF, Wide Awake Rehab, Edwardville, and every single author out there who pimped me out (big kisses to Mrs. TheKing, whose name is tattooed to my taint). I wouldn't be here without any of you. I never expected this kind of response. Love to philadelphic, my doppelganger. Love to the power couple of Twirlgrrl and her amazing husband, Freed Eagle, PI. And love to every single one of you who has read this far, spazzed and/or barfed over updates (I'm looking at ScarlettLetters, Fats, ceci, k1p2, MorganaL, Aradi, Mal, and too many others to mention), sent me dog poop, Tweeted updates, and recommended me to friends and family.**

**You give life to the [crazy, totally fucked up] dreams.**

**Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm more grateful than you can ever know.**

**This story is dedicated to the boy who is referred to in my ninth-grade diary only as "M." You were loved. You are missed.**

**Cheers,**

**Feisty**

**October 12, 2009**

**p.s. Please now proceed to the Sleepers outtakes, where you might find closure, if this epilogue was not closure enough.**


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